


the saints can't help me now

by inmoonlightigetseasick



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, At the same time, Fantasy, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Pining, Slow Burn, i dont know what to say this is so unhinged, if you're looking for Disney Adult content look elsewhere, if you've never asked urself "what if the beast fell in love w gaston", like really unbearably slow i am sorry, my brain on quarantine, my girl gabrielle suzanne barbot did NOT write la belle et la bete for this disrespect, that's why im here, to ask the uncomfortable questions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:40:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24830998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inmoonlightigetseasick/pseuds/inmoonlightigetseasick
Summary: The townsfolk said a monster lived in the castle. They were idiots on a good day, but it was easy to see how they came to this conclusion. The castle did nothing to help its case, with its jagged dark towers stabbing up into the sky. It looked like it could only exist at twilight. It lurked at the edge of the forest, which buffered it from the rest of civilization. If you could get close enough you would find its foreboding iron gates tangled with heavy chains. It was a beacon of silence, except for the days the wind howled through its eaves, sending out its mourning cry that would startle people out of sleep. It was foreboding nightmare-fodder. For some.--Napoleon is young, beautiful, shallow, fearless, and bored. When this dangerous personality and an equally chaotic sense of curiosity leads him right into the clutches of a dangerous beast, captured unless he fulfills his end of an impossible bargain, he finds that appearances can be misleading, and love is not just an illusion.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo, Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller
Comments: 50
Kudos: 173





	1. starts so soft and sweet

The townsfolk said a monster lived in the castle. They were idiots on a good day, but it was easy to see how they came to this conclusion. The castle did nothing to help its case, with its jagged dark towers stabbing up into the sky. It looked like it could only exist at twilight. It lurked at the edge of the forest, which buffered it from the rest of civilization. If you could get close enough you would find its foreboding iron gates tangled with heavy chains. It was a beacon of silence, except for the days the wind howled through its eaves, sending out its mourning cry that would startle people out of sleep. It was pure nightmare-fodder. For some. 

“Let’s break in there.” Napoleon said, after a couple of drinks. “I bet you I can do it, easy.” 

“I’d like to see you try,” Gaby said. She wiped down the bar counter without looking up at him, but smirking, humouring him. 

“Tonight then. Midnight. Let’s go.”

Setting her rag aside, Gaby rested her elbows against the counter. She brushed her bangs out of her eyes and stared at him for a beat of incredulous silence. Still, Napoleon didn’t miss the challenge hidden in her gaze. 

“Why now, all of a sudden?”

“I’m desperately bored.”

“Don’t you have a painting to work on, or something?”

“I’m all caught up,” Napoleon said, Gaby stared back in disbelief, “Okay, I have absolutely _no_ inspiration.”

“Isn’t this about the time you move on to another town, then?”

“It would be, under normal circumstances.”

“What’s so novel about life here?” 

“Well, you are for a start.” 

That earned him a truly spectacular eye roll. But it didn’t deter him. He poured every ounce of charm he had into his next smile. 

“Come on! Who knows what kinds of paintings they’ll have in that old place that could inspire me? And once I get us in there, for all my bravery and ingenuity, maybe you can give me a kiss. Under a cobweb? Or an old rotting chandelier?” Gaby rolled her eyes, but Napoleon looked closer. There was a glint there. If it wasn’t outright desire, but he’d call it curiosity, and he could work with that. 

“I won’t kiss you.” She would. “But I’ve always wanted to see it. You know, that castle is a very significant historical monument.” Napoleon had been here before, heard all about the lost and priceless artefacts that Gaby so coveted. So he propped his chin up on his hand, made his eyes wide and attentive, the perfect image of doting attention. 

Until the blacksmith’s apprentice walked into the tavern, and his head was helplessly turned. The man was six feet of bronze angles, like a statue carved by rugged gods. Flashes of skin at his collar and his sleeves presaged his powerful body, shining with fresh sweat from the forge. There was a smudge on his high cheekbone, Napoleon wanted to lick it off. 

“Don’t drool on the counter, Napoleon.” Dazed, his head turned back to Gaby’s familiar exasperation. There was an edge to her voice. “Seriously, I just wiped it down.” 

His mouth opened and closed. He hadn’t actually done anything but Gaby had a way of making him feel caught out anyway. He stared at her, and she stared back, her features were cool and impassive for about thirty more seconds before dissolving into laughter. His breath left him in a surprised chuckle. 

“Go talk to him, idiot.” 

He really wanted to. He sat there, gripping the wood of the bar. 

“Gaby, look, my offer still stands.” 

Her mouth twitched in that adorable way. She was thinking about it. This was victory enough. 

“If my dad isn’t feeling too poorly tonight, I’ll meet you at the fountain at ten.” 

“You’re the greatest person I’ve ever known.” She rolled her eyes, but the side of her mouth quirked upwards. Gaby was won gradually, and he’d taken months just to get here, this half-smile, and it had been so worth it. 

“I’m only going for the chance to recover the great cultural loss of the early century relics.” 

“Gaby! I’m not _that_ old. At least I don’t look it.” 

“I promise you these jokes are better spent on your blacksmith. He hasn’t stopped staring at you since he came in. Go on.”

Napoleon smiled at her, open and loving, he couldn’t help it. When he turned, Gaby was right as always. As soon as he locked his gaze on those gorgeous brown eyes, the blacksmith snapped his eyes back down to his drink. There was a pretty blush high on his cheeks. Napoleon crossed over to him, training his body to exude enough charm to hide the nervous flutter of his heart. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’d make a perfect body double for that Michaelangelo fellow’s _David?”_

His patented blend of sweet talk and coy glances had worked so wonderfully that Napoleon was nearly late to meet Gaby, fumbling to lace up his breeches while the blacksmith placed distracting kisses to the side of his neck, to his shoulder. The Tellers kept immaculate rooms at their inn. The beds were soft, the chambers were warm orange with firelight. Napoleon hesitated even as he shrugged on his shirt. He turned to the blacksmith, where he was lying like a debauched demigod in the tangled sheets. Napoleon returned his lazy smile then bent down to kiss him, lingering. 

“You’re making it very hard to leave,” he murmured against the blacksmith’s lips. 

“So stay,” he replied, as if it were that simple. Napoleon sighed. 

“I would but I am very late to meet someone— a friend.”

The blacksmith raised his hands as if in surrender, “Not a problem for me. You do well for yourself.” 

Napoleon stood now, and slipped his feet into his shoes. He bent to tie the laces. “It’s not like that. We’re… we’re actually going to go sneak into the old castle.” 

Napoleon heard the blacksmith _snort_ at that, and he shot up. “What? You don’t think I can do it?”

“You’re a fool to try.”

Napoleon frowned. “You don’t think it’s… haunted, do you?”

“Don’t have to think it. It’s a fact.”

Napoleon was rendered slightly speechless at that. The blacksmith grinned at him. “Glad we did this before you went. Would have been a shame. No one comes back the same.” 

“You’re right,” Napoleon said, much of his infatuation with the man dissipating, “This was fun while it lasted.” And he hastened out of the room, clambering down the steps, where he found Gaby, waiting at the bar, reading a book. He strolled up to her and she lifted her head in acknowledgement, and closed the book. 

“All ready?”

“Weren't we meeting by the fountain?”

“We were but I’ve never known you to be punctual and I didn’t want to be cold.”

“You’re always three steps ahead of me, Gabs.” 

As if to punctuate his point, Gaby stood up and made for the door. Napoleon followed her and as they began their walk to the edge of town, he was reminded of when he liked it here best. Everything was still, only the song of crickets filled the air. The night was cool, which made Napoleon glad for the wool coat around his shoulders. Gaby had prepared similarly, with a great hooded cloak that made her look like a storybook sorceress. They arrived at the forest in relative silence. Gaby wasn’t much for smalltalk, which made the perpetually chatty Napoleon squirm. He tried his best to occupy himself with his thoughts, but threw out a few idle comments when he couldn’t help himself. Gaby mostly ignored him, until they finally paused at the mouth of the forest. 

“I brought torches, do you have a light?” 

Napoleon just stared at her for a moment, wondering where she had been hiding two giant wood clubs, wrapped at the tips with white rope. She looked back at him expectantly. Caught out, he patted at his pockets wildly, hoping against hope that he was prepared. Finally his hands alighted on something, he pulled it out, praying, and his heart leapt to see a box of matches. 

Gaby snatched them from his hands and immediately set to fishing out a match, in one fluid motion she struck it against the heel of her shoe and lit the two torches. She offered one to Napoleon which he gripped tight as he followed her lead. He had a distant thought that this been his plan in the first place, but dismissed it quickly as the reality of a midnight forest grew sharper. 

The sounds of the dark forest were its most unsettling feature. They came from everywhere, owls hooting, twigs snapping, and wind rushing to form a paranoid panorama. Napoleon’s neck was beginning to ache from twitching at each noise, trying to follow the sound, eyes useless in the night. Their torches formed small orbs of orange light around them, illuminating only the most immediate danger, mangled roots and tree branches to avoid tripping on. 

Napoleon was glad Gaby’s back was to him, so she couldn’t see the way his confidence was flagging. But it was too late to turn back now. Anyway, he could hardly felt the time pass in the darkness. Sooner than he thought, they had arrived at the break of trees, and emerged into the clearing before the castle. 

It was easier to laugh at the superstition from afar. Up close, the darkness was starker, the immenseness of the property clearer. The closer they walked, the higher and more tangled grew the weeds at their feet. They encountered their first obstacle at the gates. They were made of narrow iron bars, twice Napoleon’s height, and spaced apart too narrowly to sneak in between. They were capped by sharp looking spikes at the top and snaked through with heavy chains, and all rusted. Napoleon reached out to feel the rough, perforated texture of the rotting iron, crumbled it away under his fingernails. He turned back to Gaby who stood several feet behind him, staring up at the gates, as if evaluating the whole of them in one look. 

“Should we climb it?” Though he whispered, Napoleon’s voice shattered the precious silence they had held all this time. 

Gaby didn’t startle, instead she furrowed her brow in thought. She put out her torch and set it down. With the trees clear, the silver light of the full moon was enough to see by. Napoleon followed Gaby’s lead, but he moved closer to consider the problem of the gate. 

“I don’t think we have any other options.” 

“Do you think these chains will hold?” Napoleon gave them an experimental tug, causing a cascade of rust to rain down on him. He spit and stepped back, brushing it off of himself and gagging. He heard Gaby snort, but when he looked back at her she was turned away, a hand clamped over her mouth and shoulders trembling. He rolled his eyes. 

“It’s not that funny.” Napoleon tested the chains again, from a safer distance. They offered enough resistance that he moved his hands up to the long vertical bars of the iron gate and hoisted himself up by his arms, his foot scrabbled blindly for the chain as a foothold. His breath left him in a relieved gust when his foot found it. His arms skittered further up the bars then, his other foot coming up on a higher chain. He did this until his hand could just reach the horizontal bar at the top that connected all the vertical ones. He summoned the last of his upper body strength to pull the top of his torso over the horizontal bar. There, he was faced with the issue of the spikes. His face red, and sweat dripping into his eyes, he made a terrible choice. He pushed as hard as he could, vaulting over the spikes to the other side. The fall wasn’t too bad, though landing on the cold dirt knocked the wind out of him. He recovered quickly, and got up. 

Now was the problem of getting Gaby through. He staggered back over to the gates, squinting through to find her. But she was gone.

“Gaby?” He hissed. A shiver of panic struck him then. He saw only silvery darkness. Shadows moved in the corners of his eyes. “Gaby?” He dared to be a little louder. Still no response. He paced back and forth, his shuddering exhales came, intermittently visible in the cold air. 

“Napoleon!” A voice hissed, and Napoleon jumped back against the gate, clanking the metal together, making a harsh sound in the silence. He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly and saw Gaby standing there. 

“How? You… did you climb?”

“No, there was a loose bar a couple of feet over. I wrenched it free and slipped through. The rust is way worse than you think.” 

“Good to know,” Napoleon said, still out of breath. “Maybe would have been better to know before I bet my life on that jump.”

“Well we’re in it now. If there was any time for your ‘all or nothing’ attitude, it would be now.” 

Napoleon had to laugh at that. His immediate panic dissipated knowing Gaby was safe, and he followed her with his curiosity renewed. He’d never known anyone to get this close before. He walked closer to Gaby and slipped his hand in hers, locking their fingers together. When she started he tightened his grip. 

“I don’t want to lose track of you again, is all.” 

They stood together, hands clasped, in front of the great knotted wood door. The metal fixtures were old and dirty, two foreboding handles on either side of a tarnished gold door knocker, carved into the shape of a vicious bear. Its eyes seemed to glint in the moonlight, warning those who might dare enter. The sight of it gave Napoleon pause, but Gaby’s insistent tug on his hand pulled him out of his stupor. She stepped up first, reaching out to open the door. It was heavy enough that she had to let go of Napoleon’s hand, grabbing on with both hands and heaving with all her strength until it finally creaked open. When there was a gap wide enough for the two of them to fit through, she grabbed Napoleon’s hand again and pulled him through. 

As they entered, Napoleon had the urge to cast one final glance backward. As if he might not see it again for a while. He tried to shake himself out of it, feeling himself falling into the familiar village illogic. The fact of _being_ here made it difficult to remain a skeptic. Their hushed breaths echoed in the vast emptiness of a great hall. The midnight sky pushing through the dirty, fogged up windows cast everything in sinister blue shadow. 

Though the hall was empty and dilapidated, it was clearly once grand. They were in its massive foyer, listening rather than looking at the creak of an old chandelier above them, the vast echoing size of the room. 

“You’ve got a lot of cobwebs to choose from, Gabs,” Napoleon whispered to her, he grinned when she jolted and squeezed her hand in his, “For the kiss, I mean.” 

“I cannot believe you’re still thinking about that.” There was a tremor in her voice. The smile fell from Napoleon’s face. 

“Hey, I know it’s scary, but I promise you there’s nothing really here.” 

A loud rustle sounded in the distance. In front of them, perhaps, but it was hard to tell for the echo that bounced back behind, and to the left. It was a whooshing sound, like wind rushing through curtains. That’s probably all it was. Wind. But then, footsteps. Loud, stomping, unmistakable. Napoleon found he could not move, though Gaby was a few paces ahead, tugging him, away from the sound, further into the open foyer, exposed and vulnerable. He had seized up, but forced himself to move. 

Gaby veered left, and it sent him stumbling. She walked until they hit a wall, and then Napoleon felt her reaching up. He stared at her, confused, until she pulled down an unlit torch. She dragged him a few feet further and there was another, tucked into the wall like a sconce. Gaby held her hand out for matches and Napoleon snatched them from in his pocket, handing them to her. She lit the torches and a little more of the world was illuminated. The unpolished marble at their feet, the cracks in the wall closest to them, the wide hallways to each side of the foyer, their joined hands, petrified faces, and behind them, a grand staircase leading up into the castle’s dark wings. 

Gaby squeezed Napoleon’s hand and but he couldn’t stop staring at the top of the stairs. There was nothing there, and yet he felt the most unnerving certainty that there was. 

When he voiced his concern, Gaby only sighed, frustrated and pulled him along into the long hallway. “There must be a library or something this way.” 

“Why not up the stairs?” 

“I don’t think it’s safe. It looked like the wood was rotting.” 

Yet, Napoleon felt that pull towards them, but he didn’t know how to explain this urge to Gaby. So he didn’t bother. Still, it felt like the darkness at the top of the stairs had taken form, and that it was calling to him. Or it was telling him to run. He fought both impulses and marched forward with Gaby. The path was lit in the small semicircular section their torch allowed, Napoleon stumbled more than once. And the sounds continued. Distant footsteps. That whisper of fabric. Each time it made panic climb higher in Napoleon’s throat. 

Gaby stopped them at a door. She let Napoleon’s hand go, and wasn’t exactly subtle about the way she rubbed it dry on her cloak. So he was sweating a little. He thought the circumstances more than excused it. She handed him her torch instead, and set upon the door, which was just as heavy as the last. It seemed to take all her strength to wrench it open. 

“You could let me do that.” 

She shushed him. He rolled his eyes and followed her inside. Snatching back her torch she began roaming around the room, holding it up to illuminate the various surfaces, there was avarice in the way she looked at them. Napoleon stood in place, distracted again by that sound. Footsteps. Whooshing. It was getting closer. 

“Gaby, tell me you hear that. I swear there’s something—” 

“Oh my god, I think that might be a genuine Renaissance _buffet_.” 

“I hardly think any of that food is good anymore, Gaby.”

“No, idiot. It’s a type of armoire. Look at the work on this thing.” 

Gaby held her light up closer to the item she was inspecting. It was indeed an ornate cabinet, almost taller than Gaby, wrought out of a rich mahogany wood. Its front was divided into three panels, each of which were carved with lush greenery and fruit. Above these appeared to be cabinet doors, covered in panels of stained glass through which you could see fine works of crystal and china. But Napoleon smiled at the figures of women running up the lengths.

“I like these.” He pointed them out. “They’re beautiful.” 

“These are called caryatids,” Gaby began to explain, she turned to him so that the glow of the torch illuminated his features. “They’re actually providing structural support to the base of the—” 

She fell silent. Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened as she looked somewhere past Napoleon. The light began to waver where her hand was trembling. Napoleon’s grip on his own torch tightened, white-knuckled. 

“Gaby?” But Gaby couldn’t respond, only stare. So Napoleon turned. And then he dropped his torch. 

The fire sputtered but then it caught on the dry, flaking wood beneath them. It spread around the feet of the monster who stood in the doorway. Napoleon felt his scream stuck in his throat, he couldn't look at Gaby but he felt her beside him, frozen too. 

They could only stare in stunned silence at the beastly apparition. It stared back, chest heaving up and down. It was lit from below, by the flickering firelight, which cast it into suspicion. Was it only a hallucination? It took up the whole doorway, and towered over Napoleon’s respectable six feet of height. Covered from head to toe in thick golden hair, it was looming like a bear on its hind legs. Now the smoke was getting in his eyes, but Napoleon could have sworn his massive arms ended in thick paws with hooked claws drawn. 

When it stepped forward into the fire, tamping it down and entering the room in a cloud of smoke. It breathed, low and growling, and Napoleon knew it was real. At the same time, every instinct in his body alerted him to the fact that there was no escape. Gaby knew what to do before he did, when flight was futile.

Raising her still lit torch she swung it up at the monster’s head, but it easily swatted away the attack. Napoleon scrambled for his own torch and moved forward to do the same. This time the monster grabbed him. It pushed him further into the room and pressed him against the buffet, it rattled when his weight hit it. He kicked his legs back into it too, chocking against the huge paw curling at his throat. He was sure he was dead, but he had one last instinct to yell, “Gaby! Run.” The monster had left the path open. Gaby slipped through, but not without a yell back, “I’ll get help!” 

But with Gaby’s words, Napoleon was mercilessly dropped, forgotten. He turned to follow her, ambling down the hallway where she’d disappeared. It was a blind stumble in the dark, his feet caught on bricks and old rat-traps and god knows what else as he bounded after the vague running shape in front of him, which was so much bigger, and so much faster. His heart beat in double time, terrified and quickly becoming exhausted. This hallway hadn’t seemed this long when they had been walking down it. The creature ahead only slowed when they reached the foyer again, its gaze sweeping around for Gaby. Napoleon’s breath evened, momentary relief that she had made it out. 

While the beast was distracted, perhaps it was his chance as well. He quickly evaluated his options. If he went for the door, the beast would catch him. He wouldn’t make it up the stairs in time. How good were his chances of hiding? He was distracted by a clatter. So was the monster. They turned their heads in near unison to the door, which Gaby struggled to push open. The monster headed her way, and Napoleon acted before he could think. He rushed the monster, leaping up on its back, taking its hair in his fists and _pulling_. The beast roared. He reared back and grabbed at Napoleon on his back, digging his claws into the wool of Napoleon’s coat, which was fortunately thick enough to keep the sharp points from piercing Napoleon’s skin. Still, this wasn’t ideal, piggybacking some wolf-man, illuminated in flashes by slivers of moonlight. Napoleon heaved his whole body backwards to try and drag him back from Gaby, but he barely budged the creature. 

Then, before he could even register the gravity shifting, he was plucked off the monster’s back, and flung across the room. His back hit the edge of the stairs, and his head followed, and then the darkness enveloped his sight. The last thing he heard was Gaby’s scream. 


	2. the ropes have been unbound

Napoleon woke up in a dungeon. His head throbbed so badly, for a moment he was convinced of a new reality. It was familiar. He was in the alley behind the old tavern again, waking up after a night of overindulgence. But as slowly as the dappled light coming through the bars of his cage, the memories of what had happened the night before returned. His stomach sank in grief and worry and disbelief. The hay made him itch everywhere, so he sat up, too fast, his vision went dizzy. His breathing grew quick and panicked. 

Where was Gaby? Napoleon concentrated on steadying himself, one hand buried in the hay. Finally, his vision righted, and he took advantage of that small chunk of daylight to get a good look at the extent of the cell. The space was about the size of a closet, so he only had to turn his head to find her, a small shivering mass curled into herself, her back against the adjacent wall. 

He hissed her name, and she whispered back, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. A little bruised. We need to get out of here.”

“And how do you plan on doing that? I checked the door, it’s locked. And besides— that _thing_ might come back.”

Napoleon let out a slow shuddering breath. “What _was_ that?”

“I don’t know.” Gaby said, her voice uncommonly quiet. Napoleon had the sudden urge to comfort her, and was certain that only a solution could. So he cast his gaze around the small space once again.

“Let’s try the grate, there, above us. I can give you a boost. Maybe you can open it.” 

“Will you be okay to do that? Are you hurt?” 

“Just sore,” Napoleon said, but he winced as Gaby clambered onto his shoulders, sending pain radiating from his shoulders. She had to stretch her hands to grab at the bars of the grate, but hope soared in Napoleon’s chest when he heard them give a rattle. 

“I think I’ve got it,” Gaby said, and then came a definitive _clunk_. She had pushed the grate to the other side. Napoleon wobbled a bit where he held her up as she pushed herself forward and craned her neck out. 

“We’re underground, I can crawl out onto the grounds!” Gaby’s elation at her discovery was a brief, spark of hope. Napoleon lifted her higher, suddenly feeling like the nightmare was over. But it was all quickly undercut by the sound of thundering footsteps, getting closer. Napoleon made a decision in a heartbeat.

“Gaby, go, now!” He boosted her higher then giving her enough momentum so that she could plant her upper body onto the ground and climb out. She stuck her head back in immediately, and reached out her arms to help him.

“Quick! Let’s go!” 

As Napoleon looked up at her, contemplating whether he could jump and grab her arms, or if that would pull her back in, he waited too long. 

The door slammed open and the beast was there. Napoleon turned, frozen at the sight of him in the murky daylight. He was as tall as ever, his hair reflected the light like spun gold, it was grotesquely beautiful. And in the daylight it was clear he wore fine clothes with delicate embroidery and careful stitching, worn as if it were clumsily altered to fit someone suddenly too large. His face was that of a bear, a snout and snarling jaws where a human face should have been. He had fearsome blue eyes, which flicked immediately to where Gaby was staring in from outside and he _roared_. Napoleon turned quickly.

“Run, Gaby!”

“I’ll come back with help!” And with her promise, she was gone.

The monster bounded into the cell, slamming the door behind him, and made a desperate and futile grab out the window. His paws scrabbled in empty air, and he released his frustration in a low, vicious growl. Napoleon retreated to the back wall and cowered. He looked at the door, his only hope of escape, and again at the monster. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat, it was picking up speed.

The beast turned on him then. “You will pay for letting her go!”

Napoleon momentarily forgot his fear, frozen instead with confusion. “It speaks.” He said it more to himself. 

“Did you hear me? I want her back!”

It was strange. The fact that he spoke fluently, though in a slight foreign accent, should have been _more_ frightening. Yet Napoleon found himself growing calmer, rather comforted by it. He’d already shown himself incapable of fighting the beast, but he knew himself, and he could _talk_ himself out of anything.

“Do you need her specifically? A tall, charming guy like you could do much better.”

“Do not make jokes.” The beast’s snarl grew fiercer. Napoleon could talk himself out of _almost_ anything, it seemed.

“I would help you get her back but look what happened the first time she came here! You sent her running! Word to the wise, girls don’t really take well to being threatened and chased and thrown into a dungeon.” 

Napoleon watched the expressions on that strange face morph from anger to confusion and finally settling on _sadness_. The beast looked right into Napoleon’s eyes, “She ran because she saw me.”

The beast’s admission twisted something in Napoleon’s chest, a pang of sympathy he didn’t expect. He was speaking to save himself, yes, but now he found there was an unfamiliar sincerity leaching into his voice. He spoke a confusing truth, “I’m seeing you and I’m still here.”

“Because I imprisoned you. As I did with her. It is a famously effective tactic.”

Napoleon cracked a smile, despite himself. “Fine. Maybe she ran because she saw you. It was my first instinct too.”

“So you see, I had no choice.”

“Technically, I have no choice either, but I’m trying to hear you out. I’m not running.”

“You are not scared for your life at all? You look too vain for that.”

Napoleon smiled again, even barking out a startled little chuckle. “ _Talking_ to you makes me think reasoning my way out of here might be a better strategy than brute force. You’ve got me made there, but I’m sure if you had better manners, kind of like the ones I’m demonstrating now, any girl could learn to get past your looks.”

The beast looked at him for a long time in silence. He looked completely bewildered, his eyes were wide, his mouth agape. As if no one had ever talked to him like that before. Or like no one had talked to him _at all_ in a while. He finally asked, “who are you?”

“They call me Napoleon. And apart from my imminent peril, who might you be?”

“Let’s stick with Peril.” And with that, he walked out of the cell, slamming the door behind him. Napoleon ran up to it, banged against it with his fist.

“Hello?” he called out, “You can’t just leave me here!”

Yet, he did. He just left him there. Napoleon stared up at the grate, a good five feet and some odd inches above him. He looked around himself for solutions. Gaby was usually better at this. He supposed that’s why she’d escaped and he was still here. Then he saw the bales of hay stacked in the corners of the rooms. Fitting, as he was trapped in here like an animal. Ironic, as he seemed to be the only real human here. He got to work. Picking up the hay, which was loosely formed into these rectangular masses, hopelessly dry, which crumbled even as they touched his hands. He stacked them anyway, tight against the wall.

As soon as his foot hit the hay, the pile dissolved and he fell forward, slipping on the scattered strands. His hands flew to brace himself against the wall. He leaned his forehead against it with a gentle thump. This wasn’t working. 

There was that familiar itch of frustration which, if untended, Napoleon knew would rush headlong into rage. It was time to try jumping. If he could get his fingers on the lip of the edge, he could probably hoist himself through the opening. So he jumped, his hands skittered down the dirty wall on his way down. He dug his nails into the grit, frustrated, and he jumped again. Again, it was futile.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could do this, his legs ached. But he had to keep trying. That beast couldn’t be reasoned with, and he was running out of options. So he kept trying, jumping until pearls of sweat rolled down his neck. Jumping until he was screaming in vain, imagining Sisyphus happy. 

When he finally, finally gave up, it was dark again. He sank to his knees, back against the wall. His head dropped into his hands, and he sighed, exhausted. 

That was when the door opened again. Napoleon startled up to see the beast once again silver in the moonlight. He wasn’t as shocking on repeat viewings. 

“Hello there, Peril.” He gave the beast the most winning grin he could muster. He hoped it at least fell somewhere on the other side of a grimace.

“Is it not cold enough here for you?” The evening chill had been seeping into the room for a while now, but Napoleon had stripped off his coat and even his shirt, he’d been sweating so much from his failed plot to escape. Now his arms were prickling with gooseflesh, his sweat cooling uncomfortably on his skin. Still he shrugged his bare shoulders. 

“Was just getting comfortable, is all. Seeing as you left me in here.”

“I was preparing your room.”

“Sorry?” 

“I live here alone. Don’t have guests often. Needed to straighten some things out.”

“So we’ve moved on from prisoner to guest.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just confused as to how we got there?”

“Stop apologizing. Follow me to your room. Come downstairs for dinner. I will explain.”

Napoleon stared at him for a moment, struck silent with his surprise. The monster stood in the doorway, shuffled his feet in the dirt. His gaze roamed around the small cell, landing anywhere but on Napoleon. He was waiting, Napoleon realized with a dull start. He scrambled to his feet, brushing off the itchy strands of hay that stuck to his lower back. He picked up his shirt and coat and stopped in front of the beast, looked up at him, and tried to grin again.

“After you, Peril.” Either his smile had achieved the desired obnoxiousness or the nickname was was getting under the beast’s skin, but he earned a snarl before the beast turned on his heel to stalk back through the castle. 

Napoleon followed, but his eyes eagerly drank in their surroundings. They were in a narrow hallway, only able to walk single file. The ceiling was high and ribboned with spiderwebs. It was dark, but the flickering flames of the lit sconces filled the space with that eerie orange glow and cast their thin black shadows against the wall, made them waver. 

The long hallway ended in a doorway with steep stone stairs, too many of them, Napoleon’s calves burned by the time they reached the top. And once again they were in that familiar foyer, only they were behind that massive set of stairs. They circled around, passing that fateful hallway Napoleon and Gaby had chosen to enter, and then started climbing the main set of stairs as well. Napoleon’s footfalls were heavy, and the beast’s were even more thunderous, and yet the wood didn’t so much as creak. _Rotting, indeed,_ thought Napoleon. And he wondered idly if their whole ordeal last night might have gone a lot quicker if Gaby had just listened to him and let him come up here. 

Now, though the circumstances weren’t ideal, that itch of curiosity was getting scratched. When they reached the top of the stairs, it was clear the house split into two distinct wings. One was illuminated by the pulsing light from the sconces on the wall, which the beast had apparently lit and Napoleon couldn’t imagine how long that must have taken without any help. They turned down the path they could see, which didn't stop Napoleon from casting a careful glance at the dark of the road not taken. 

He was quickly distracted, though, by the former grandeur of the palace’s interior which was duly visible now. The wallpaper, old and peeling, was of an intricate swirling pattern, colourful with deep jewel tones. It reminded Napoleon of the cover of one of Gaby’s old books, something about Arabian nights. The doors were high, of worked mahogany, embossed with all kinds of vines and flowers preserved forever in wood, like ants trapped in amber. He saw more of those load-bearing women, the caryatids, holding up various tables and armoires pushed against the wall, scattered with busts and books and ornate metal candle-holders. It was a hoarders paradise, complete with the inch thick dust that came with years of decline.

Finally they stopped in front of a door that looked like any of the others. It was starkly different, however, in that it was for him. 

“You can bathe, if you must,” the beast said, “Then you will join me in the dining hall, down the stairs and take a left.” The hallway they hadn’t entered. The beast turned and opened the door for Napoleon and moved out of the way. Napoleon peeked in, cautious at first, but soon taken in with marvel and that familiar tug of curiosity that followed him everywhere in the place. 

The room was large, larger than anyplace he’d ever stayed, larger than the house in which he grew up. It was plastered with a more muted wallpaper than the hall. It was a robin’s-egg blue, dotted with a dark and intricate pattern. Napoleon wandered farther into the room and let his hand trail against the wall, tracing the spaces between the odd little shapes. The room was uncommonly sparse, no caryatids to be found, instead, a gorgeous four-poster bed in the center of the room, a burning fireplace in the farthest wall, and an undecorated walnut armoire. He opened the door, his fingers curling around the smooth brass knob, and it revealed a selection of old-fashioned clothes. Stiff jackets and crisp white shirts that were a half-size too big for him. When he touched them, they felt luxe, but unloved. The bottom of the armoire had two drawers which when opened revealed pants and underclothes, also strangely untouched. 

As promised, the beast had left Napoleon a basin and some cloths to wash up. He did the best he could, though he craved a proper bath. He went from smelling like dirt and hay and old, stale sex (god, that sweet memory of the blacksmith’s apprentice felt like a lifetime ago), to the pleasant neutral odour of his skin. He wasn’t sure who he was trying to impress. 

Finally, he made his way back down the hall, and descended the stairs, itching a little in his starched collar. He had been cold, but the jacket was also too big, and it was making him start to sweat. 

He found the dining room, its door was ajar, and the beast was sitting at the head of a long table, flanked by high-backed velvet and mahogany chairs. The effect of him was dimmed, as he was backlit by a great burning fireplace. The rest of the room was illuminated by dots of firelight shining at the tips of ornate candelabras. 

Napoleon ventured closer and found his place set at the opposite end. Scoffing, he piled his cutlery onto his plate and grabbed it and his glass in both hands and walked closer to the beast. He replaced the settings in the seat adjacent to the beast’s, clumsily mimicking their original fancy presentation to the beast’s offence and horror. 

Napoleon sat down, at last, with a grin on his face, and he said, “well, what are we having?”

The beast stared at him until Napoleon squirmed under his pale blue gaze. Then he waved one great paw, and everything began to move on its own accord. Napoleon froze to his seat. A great platter of roast meat soared through the air, past his shoulder and deposited a perfect portion on his plate. Sides of vegetables followed, some stewed and some fresh, neatly arrayed by invisible hands. 

Watching a bottle of wine, suspended in air, deposit rich burgundy liquid into his crystal goblet, he broke his silence, “what is that?”

“Eat,” the beast barked, “you ask your questions later. I said I will explain.”

With nothing else to do, Napoleon picked up his fork, expecting to brush hands with whatever had just been here arranging the meal, but his hands moved through uninterrupted air. He ate, processing yet another strangeness, hardly tasting the food. The hall echoed with silence and the clinking of their cutlery. It was a little comical to see the delicate way the beast held the silverware, dwarfed in this giant paws. He managed it with a surprising amount of grace. But it had the effect of someone teaching their dog to eat with knife and fork, it was unsettling, unnatural. No wonder he didn’t go on many dates.

When Napoleon finished, seconds after the beast had cleared his plate, he dabbed his mouth with his napkin before it was whisked away from his grip. The plates levitated and then flew away behind them, presumably to some unseen kitchen. Their wine glasses were topped up once again.

The beast cleared his throat. “I know you have questions for me.”

“Understatement of the century.”

“I will try to adequately explain myself, but I understand you will have questions too.”

“Oh, believe me I have nothing but questions.”

The beast stared at him, in this exasperated way that was beginning to get familiar. “I was not always like this.”

“What, a jerk? Really? How’d you learn?”

“I would appreciate it if you did not interrupt me. I could always just kill you.”

“Come on, that’s no way to treat a guest.” 

Now the beast tapped one paw impatiently against the table. It made the great wood structure shake. “Do you want answers or not?”

Napoleon held his hands up in surrender and said nothing more. His curiosity was winning over his insatiable desire to be glib.

“As I said. I was not always like this. I was a prince. This castle was mine. But I was cursed. And now I am a beast.” The unfeeling monotone in which he spoke did little to dull the shock of his words. Napoleon’s mouth fell open, words hung on his lips. But before he could get them out, the beast continued, “This happened many years ago. Longer than you would remember. Just as I have been trapped in this body, I was frozen in time. It has been many long, lonely years like this.”

Napoleon stared at him dumbly, but whenever he was unsure if he should speak, he spoke. “Is there any way to change back?”

The beast rolled his eyes, and sighed, longsuffering, but when he spoke he mumbled his words like he didn’t want Napoleon to hear them. “It’s all part of some daft lesson about vanity. The witch had a sense of humour. I must fall in love. Rather, someone must fall in love with me, and kiss me, and that will revert the spell.”

Napoleon couldn’t help a startled laugh, though it was hardly the occasion, but he was in disbelief. “And you want Gaby to fall in love with you?”

The beast looked offended, “that’s what I was thinking, yes.”

“Good luck, pal, I’ve been trying to win her over for the better part of a year. I think I just barely count as a friend to her.”

The beast looked distressed. He said, "I don't have that kind of time."

Then, he reached into his great coat pocket. Only the very tips of the digits of his paw fit as he fished around for something, drawing it out. He placed it in front of Napoleon, handling it gingerly. It was a watch. Old, unremarkable, but a brand Napoleon recognized. The band was a plain brown leather, which looked worn from use. The glass face had a long jagged crack stretching from twelve to six. The hands moved slowly but regularly. 

“One of the only things I was left with after was my father’s watch. All these years, it has been still. Broken, I thought. But then it started moving again. I believe when it finishes its cycle, I will be stuck like this forever”

“Are you saying you only have twelve hours?”

“No, the minute hand moves each day.”

“Oh. Okay,” Napoleon did the math in his head, “What, you have like five years to figure this out?”

“I did. Four years and six months ago.” 

Napoleon’s eyes flicked down and saw the minute hand frozen somewhere between ten and eleven, it was hard to see through the murky glass, in the dim firelight, and fairytale haze of it all. He wasn’t sure he could believe anything he did manage to see.

He asked the question he was dreading. “And how do I figure into all of this?”

“I want you to stay here. For three months. Or as long as it takes to improve… me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are charming, yes? You are popular with women?”

“And men,” Napoleon blurted, and he held the beast’s gaze, challenging him. But the beast only rolled his eyes again, it was getting to be a familiar reflex to anything Napoleon said. 

“I am asking you to teach me your ways— because of what you said.”

“Oh you mean back in the cell? Where you imprisoned me?”

He had the decency to look ashamed. “Yes. It was necessary. You said you thought I was... good to talk to. That a girl might be able to see past my looks, if I could charm her.”

“Listen, Peril,” Napoleon scratched idly at his neck, which was beginning to grow hot, uncomfortable, “I think I would have said just about anything to get out of that situation.”

“So you do not think I can do it?” The beast looked deflated then, something glinting in his eyes which betrayed a deep sorrow, the shadow of a longstanding grief. 

“I don’t know how I would even go about _teaching_ you.”

“It’s simple. You will stay here with me, for the next three months at least. Give me lessons. On manners, on conversation. Then I will let you go.”

“Is that the only way I get out then?”

“Is it unfair to you? You trespassed on my property first.”

“We thought this place was abandoned!”

“It’s not.”

The beast’s next look was long, meaningful. Napoleon felt the fight in him die, finally. And maybe it was the hours spent in that cell, or the gorgeous bed the beast was offering in its place, or maybe there had been drugs in his food. The beast’s wager didn’t seem like too bad of an offer. Gaby was coming back for him anyway, so he probably wouldn’t even have to stay the three months. 

“Okay,” Napoleon said. Then at once he startled back because the beast was snarling at him, all his horrible sharp teeth on display. Napoleon raised a hand to his hard-beating heart, and caught his breath as he realized the beast was _smiling_. Or else he was trying. “Tomorrow, first thing, we’ll start with smiling lessons.” 

The beast closed his mouth and looked away. “That sounds good.”

Napoleon kept staring at the beast a while longer. He’s not sure if it was just a trick of the light, or if in the shadows he could see an echo of the noble angle of the beast’s nose, the proud way he must have once held himself. His pelt still had that eerie golden glow. Napoleon found himself wondering how it would feel under his fingers, and he decided quickly that it would be an easy way to lose a hand if tried to find out. The thought of the violence inseparable from the beast’s strange beauty was enough to turn the dinner sitting in Napoleon’s stomach.

“I think I’d better turn in,” he said, and he stood to leave. The beast only grunted in acknowledgement. Napoleon had already reached the door, when he turned back. He’d forgotten something. “If we’re going to do this, you should probably tell me your name.”

“My name is Illya.”

“Well it’s nice to meet you, Illya. Good night.”

The beast grunted again. Napoleon smiled. “Okay, maybe we’ll do our first lesson tonight. Always wish a girl goodnight.”

Napoleon’s smile grew as he watched the beast, who he needed to practice calling _Illya_ , roll his eyes again. But sure enough, Illya said, “Sleep well.”

And despite the nightmares the old palace promised, Napoleon did. 


	3. a man who's pure of heart, and says his prayers by night

Napoleon woke to a bright patch of sunlight, dashed over his eyes through the gap in his window. He hadn’t noticed it earlier, the tall curtains having blended in with the rest of the wallpaper and its dizzying pattern. Much of last night still felt like a dream. That was including the strange bargain he’d found himself in. Tame a beast? Or more improbable, tame _this_ ill-tempered, sharp-witted creature? He wasn’t sure it could be done. He still wasn’t sure any of this was real. If it was, who was to say that _Napoleon_ was up to the task? He didn’t want to know what would happen when he inevitably failed. Would the beast kill him? He blinked into the sunlight. 

A knock at his door. “Who is it?” he called, his voice still rough from sleep. 

“Are you ready? I want to start lessons now.” 

Napoleon had no idea what time it was, but it felt too early. He looked down at himself, still stark naked and tangled in the sheets. “Not quite decent yet. Give me a minute!” 

In record speed, Napoleon unravelled himself from his bed, and managed to splash himself with some fresh water which those ghostly attendants had probably poured for him. He tugged on another set of borrowed clothes, their discomfort augmented now that he realized they probably belonged to Illya before… well. They gave Napoleon the strangest sensation, like he was wearing the clothes of a dead person. That clearly wasn’t the case. He hoped. Though if it wasn’t actually departed spirits serving them dinner… no. He decided then that he couldn’t think about anything here _too_ much, that only made it make _less_ sense.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the old, stained mirror. He combed through his curls as best he could, just with his fingers. Without his careful routine and special products it was all rather pointless, the dark locks of his hair curled free. 

Giving up, he opened the door. Illya was on the other side, icy eyes wide and alert. Napoleon watched the beast give him a once over, his eyes lingering on his hair, and finally landing in that familiar disdainful expression. Napoleon grinned back.

“Maybe lesson two will be, ‘it’s rude to stare.’”

“Do you have an _actual_ plan?”

Napoleon bit his lip. “Ah, no. I was rather tired after dinner.”

A heavy exhale, which made his nostrils flare. “This is a waste of my already precious little time. I should have just killed you and gotten it over with.”

“Death threats? Really? This isn’t the kind of behaviour that’s going to endear you to anyone, you know.”

“I _don’t_ know! That is the _issue!_ ” 

“Okay! Okay! Do you… do you have a study or something? Let’s sit down. Let’s come up with a plan.” 

Illya didn’t say anything else, only turned and stalked away. Napoleon took that as a yes, and a cue to follow, walking in the tall shadow cast by his broad shoulders. More winding hallways with more peeling, intricate wallpaper. The designs were beginning to blur in Napoleon’s head, adding to the awful disorientation that he had felt since stepping foot in this place.

“What’s the deal with this wallpaper?” he asked. Illya didn’t slow down or turn back. 

“I did not choose it. My family were appreciative of so-called 'exotic' aesthetics. It was a good way to show how rich you were. The less people understood the better.”

“Was the point to make their guests motion sick?”

“If you do not like it, keep your eyes off the walls."

Then, Illya stopped, his movement so sudden, Napoleon had to reel back to keep from crashing into him. Illya’s paw had set upon a knob, its brass so tarnished it melted into the dark wood of the door. When he pushed it open, a flurry of dust particles shot back, making Illya’s nose twitch. It made Napoleon sneeze, not all too gracefully, but he turned around and covered his face. 

When he turned back Illya grunted, “Bless you.”

Napoleon just grinned back, pleased that Illya was not totally bereft of manners. He was learning that sometimes the trick to speaking to Illya was to not speak at all. He followed Illya into the room. His eyes travelled quickly across the walls, lined from floor to ceiling with tall shelves stacked to overflowing with books. Everything was lit up by the streams of sunlight that came in through long windows that divided the stacks, as well as by a few grimy skylights in the ceiling. Long ladders with wheels at their feet were dispersed intermittently among the shelves, for ease of access to the higher volumes. In the centre of the room a large round table, made of a similar material to the dining table, was ringed with more squat, plump looking chairs than the ones they had used last night. They were upholstered in a midnight blue fabric, velvety to the touch.

“Are you going to just stroke my chairs or sit in them?” Illya asked. He had chosen his place at the head of the table, as usual. And again he seemed perturbed when Napoleon sat himself down right beside him. Napoleon leaned forward against the table, perched his head in his hands.

“Okay. Let’s think about this. Charm. Poise. Attractiveness.” Napoleon emphasized each word with a flourish of the hand. Each movement seemed to wear Illya’s patience thinner. “These are qualities that go beyond looks, you know. I’ve always believed this.”

Illya snorted at that. 

“I know you don’t believe me. And you were right to call me vain. In the past… maybe my actions haven’t represented this belief. I’ll admit there have been many times when I have not really considered anything about a person beyond their looks. But that’s why I think I’ve never really had any relationship for very long. I find these relationships end very quickly. Nothing more than two beautiful people and a fun night, but nothing beyond that.” His mind dwindled on the blacksmith’s apprentice, a perfect example of someone Napoleon had been attracted to until he turned out to be a superstitious alarmist just like everyone else in the village. He also turned out to be right. But that wasn’t the point. Either way, he didn't think Illya would much appreciate the story.

“I think the way to approach this is going to be for you to not repeat my mistakes. Basically, learn against my example.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Excellent. So. You want Gaby, right?”

“Yes. I think she would be a good fit for me.”

“So far, what you know about her is that she’s gorgeous.” Napoleon left a pointed silence for Illya to agree, but he only shrugged. “I know I’m backtracking here. Of course looks don’t matter but often they’re your opener. So you think Gaby’s beautiful. You have to _say_ she’s beautiful. You have to tell her, often.”

“Is stroking her ego really the key to her heart?”

Napoleon had to think about that for a minute. Then to his chagrin, he admitted, “For lots of people that is the case, yes, but Gaby is a little different. My point still stands though, it helps to open with that. You know how when you stroke an ornery cat, it’s soothed, it calms down, and trusts you more. Human egos are like that.”

“Okay,” Illya rolled his eyes again, “what else.”

“You didn’t even write that down. I was kind of proud of the cat analogy.”

Illya looked at him for a minute, torn between what looked like equal desire to throttle him and the impossible need for his help. Napoleon silently thanked whatever deity made the latter option his unlikely reality. He watched as Illya heaved himself out of his seat and crossed the room to a covered desk, pushed against the wall, hidden in a shadow. Opening the lid, he extricated a few sheets of parchment, a ratty old quill pen, and a pot of ink. Holding them all in one paw he walked back and deposited them on the tabletop. Sitting down again, he began writing, which appeared to be as practiced a skill as his dextrous handling of the silverware at dinner had been. Napoleon was surprised as this action, it made it feel like his big lumbering body, as inconvenient and uncomfortable it seemed to make him, was also something he had spent years coming to terms with, learning to echo the human actions he had once probably carried out with a straight back and imperious look on his face.

“What’s next?”

“Okay,” Napoleon said, scrambling a little, “So we’ve covered the introductory compliments, we can go over more examples of those too, but I think you’ve got the spirit of what I mean. Maybe then we can move into your, uh, reactionary nature.”

“Reactionary?” Illya snapped, “what is that supposed to mean?”

Napoleon winced, “It means that it’s not attractive that you yell whenever you’re criticized.” 

Illya’s eyes widened. He sat back in his chair a little. “It’s my temper. It’s never been… I’ve never been very patient.”

“It’s okay, we can work on that. I think I’m probably the perfect person to test you in this regard.”

Illya looked away, and sniffed, “I am grateful for your help. Even this. Agreeing to talk with me. No one has… not for years.”

Napoleon had the bizarre urge to reach out, to cover that giant paw with his hand in a soothing gesture. Again, the final dredges of his self-preservation instinct prevented it. He cleared his throat instead. “I think once we get your temper under control, the next step will probably be your bedside manner.”

“Bedside manner… ? I’m not a medic.”

“I know.” Napoleon winced. “I just didn’t want to say pillow talk.” 

Illya’s paw twitched, knocking over the inkwell entirely. Napoleon skidded back in his chair, and Illya rushed to right it, still, a great spreading pool of black ink quickly soaked the parchment. Illya’s breath left him then in an exhausted rush. He tried to mop up the ink with a few abortive swipes of the parchment but then crumpled that in his paws and gave up. He slammed his elbows against the table and buried his face in his hands.

“How will I even _get_ that far?”

Napoleon moved closer to the table cautiously. Recognizing the hair trigger on which Illya’s patience now rested. “It’s going to be a process. It’s only day one!” Slowly, Napoleon extricated the crumpled parchment from Illya’s grip, and then he pried out the pen. Dipping it in the spilled ink, he smoothed it out, and picking a clean edge began to scribble. When he was done, he cleared his throat and read out loud, hoping to coax Illya back out from his slump.

“Presenting Napoleon Solo’s five step, foolproof plan to Break That Curse. Step one, fixing your face, we’ll work on the way you always look at people like you kind of want to eat them, and we’ll get you to stop that. Step two, the smile, we’ll learn that baring your teeth doesn’t always have to be a precursor to eating someone.” At that, Illya let out a snort. Napoleon was encouraged, and he couldn’t help his grin as he continued to read. “Step three, conversation. Now, you’re not a bad conversationalist, really, but we’re going to make you even better. We’ll update you on the culture and what the cool kids are saying. Then you can unlearn all of that to learn the weird shit Gaby is into.” Illya’s ears perked up, just at the mention of her name. It gave Napoleon some hope. “Step four, the mushy stuff. We’re going to get into the embarrassing but necessary things to say when you’re in love with someone. This is all about vulnerability, and you’re going to hate it, so we’re going to save it for a part of the process when you want to kill me less.” Illya lifted his head and looked at Napoleon. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, perhaps protest that he wanted to kill Napoleon. But Napoleon didn’t give him the chance, lowering the paper he finished, staring into Illya’s eyes. “Step five, the dance.”

Finally Illya broke his stunned silence. “Dance?”

“It’s the language of love when language fails.”

“What hack poet wrote that?”

Napoleon smiled. “I came up with it myself.”

“Your plan inspired hope in me for a second. A foolish little hope.”

“Okay. This has been a productive morning, but now the real work begins. Now tell me, do you have a mirror?”

The question looked like it made Illya sick, but he still stood up and began to walk out of the library. Napoleon cast a final glance at the spilled ink, but Illya waved his hand and the invisible attendants got to work. As much as Napoleon wanted to stay and watch, Illya was already halfway down the hallway as he tried to catch up with him. He knew if he were left to his own devices in this castle, he’d either get lost or discover some other unsettling reality about the place. And he had had plenty for the past twenty-four hours. 

Illya stalked past at least half a dozen doors before settling on one. He took a deep breath before he opened it. 

“When this first… happened to me. I didn't want to confront it. To… look at what I’d become. So I put all the mirrors in this room.”

“How long has it been since you’ve been in here?”

A pained expression crossed Illya’s features. “I don’t know.”

Then he turned the knob and they entered. Napoleon pressed a hand over his mouth to stifle his reaction as they walked in, as the refracted image of Illya, recopied in the hundreds, all over the room, greeted him and his own wide-eyed stare. He looked back at Illya, whose normally regal stature was hunched, pressed inward like the weight of every reflection was bearing back upon him somehow. Again, his fingers itched to touch, to soothe that pain the only way he knew how. Again, he resisted, hand fisted against his side.

“Can… can I just take one for us to use?”

Illya was silent. Shaking in tiny, fitful movements. Breathing in short, quick sobs. Napoleon couldn’t stop himself this time. He rushed closer, and planted a fateful hand on the grand arc of Illya’s back, feeling the pilling fabric of his jacket, as he rubbed a placating circle. 

He made it about half way through the motion before he found himself flying backwards, knocked off his feet with a powerful impact to his abdomen, and left to feel the sharp slicing pain of a shattered mirror at his back. He gasped in a breath. His hand, flying out to steady himself, landed in more pieces of broken glass and he hissed, his palm stinging. He looked, bewildered, at Illya who regarded him not with the same shock he felt at that completely random act of violence, instead there was a steady, cold anger in his eyes.

“You are _never_ to touch me,” he said, his great paw still trembled with his anger.

“I’m here to _help_ you _,_ ” Napoleon hissed, “I was just trying to _help_.”

“This is not helping. This is _intruding_.” And with that demand he turned on his heel and marched out of the room. Napoleon was left to pick himself up, bleeding and aching. When he managed to make it to the door, he saw Illya continuing to stalk down the corridor. A sudden rage of his own gripped him.

“Hey!” he called, and Illya turned. The expression on his face wavered only for a second, the faintest shadow of concern as he saw Napoleon leaning against the doorframe, cradling his bleeding hand to his chest. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but Napoleon beat him to it. “Don’t expect to be loved by Gaby, or by _anyone_ \- Expect to stay a monster _forever_ if you’re going to act like one.” 

The rage shuttered back into place and Illya’s expression hardened. Napoleon watched him carefully, and when he moved, Napoleon winced, braced for impact. But Illya only turned and stalked away. 

Napoleon wandered back to his room, bleeding through his shirt, and still unable to use his cut-up hand. When he made it, he found his basin refreshed and managed to wash his wounds, and then he wrapped them to the best of his ability with a set of bandages the invisible attendants had also left. It was hard to reach some of the cuts on his back, so he patched those up most haphazardly, unsure of how to call the spirits for help. When he was done, he was lightheaded from the blood, and exhausted, he fell into bed.

He sank into a deep, fitful sleep. He woke up murky and dreamless and only because he was shivering under the heavy down of his blanket. His teeth chattered and his skin had erupted in gooseflesh. His bleary gaze landed first on his fireplace, which appeared to have long gone cold. He sighed, staring up into the ceiling, also decorated to a nauseating degree. His discomfort pushed him out of bed, stumbling to his closet to tug on the warmest clothes he could find, gingerly on his still aching body, stinging skin.

As he neared the fireplace, he looked around for more wood to burn, but the wire basket where a stash of extra logs would be lay empty. Napoleon sighed. By now he knew he was on his own here, and so as sore and sleepy as he was, he made the grudging decision to go out and get some wood himself. He tried the other rooms first, of course, but found the other rooms were either locked, or opened to reveal nothing but ghostly furniture, all wrapped up in white gauze. 

By the time he had reached the end of his long hallway, he was awake enough to decide that he would have to go outside and get the wood himself. Despite the way his body protested, he rushed down the stairs, his hand just touching the door when, like a phantom, Illya was there. 

“Where do you think you’re going? We have a deal!”

Napoleon girded himself, summoning what patience he had left. “There’s no firewood anywhere in this useless palace of yours. I’m cold. I’m going to go get some."

“Nonsense! It’s fine!” Napoleon only cast a withering glance to the ample fur and thick wool jacket Illya wore to make his point. It gave Illya pause. “How do I know this isn’t just a ruse so that you run away?”

“Why not make it a test? If I’m not back in half an hour, you can come get me. Here.” He offered up his hand that was marked by shallow gashes from the incident with the mirror. Illya looked at it, startled, as if he wasn’t there. As if he didn’t cause it. Napoleon didn’t bother hiding the bitterness in his voice. “Why don’t you get a whiff of my blood, then you’ll be able to track me.”

Illya looked chagrined. It was an uncommon look on him. His features, though beastly, were still fundamentally noble and proud. “I do not need to do that. Come back before dark. Be careful.”

With that he turned on his heel and left. Napoleon rolled his eyes and pushed open the door. His first breath of the outside world was like a revelation. He hadn’t been gone long at all, but he missed it. Relishing the taste of freedom he wandered into the open world. But then, a looming, familiar presence at his back. Illya. He whirled around. 

“So what, that’s it? That’s how short of a leash you’ve got me on? For God’s sake, I’ve barely walked two steps out of this place!” Napoleon felt his cheeks heating up, the surefire sign that he was red and blustery. But now wasn’t a time he could recall his composure. Illya, in contrast, looked unperturbed. 

“Are you finished?”

“What?”

Wordlessly he held out an axe, holding it horizontally to show he was in no way wielding it. Napoleon flinched back anyway. Illya sighed. 

“You want to go chop wood. Likely need an axe.”

“Right.” Napoleon said, now embarrassed at his outburst. He took the axe from Illya and waited until he took his cue to go back into the palace, Napoleon’s eyes lingered on his retreating form. Turning, he ventured further into the woods, but the novelty of it was gone. He trudged over to the gate, which he still found to be chained. With no interest in repeating his earlier stunt in vaulting over the damned thing, he remembered what Gaby had said about the loose bar, and in the daylight the gap it left in the gate was obvious. He slipped out, hand trailing on the cold iron, remembering the short time ago it was that they’d made the fateful decision to cross this threshold. On the other side, he realized Illya was right to have been suspicious. Going back home seemed like the easiest thing in the world to do right now. Who would stop him? He even had a weapon to fight them off. 

But he’d never had a conscience that weighed on him so heavily before. He had to ask himself, did he really mean to deliver Gaby to that beast? Who threw him into a wall of mirrors in a heady, irrational rage. He’d be insane to expose his friend to danger like that. He was already insane to have reasoned with Illya as long as he had. But hadn’t it won him this opportunity? A modicum of trust, and a chance to survive. But Illya’s story, those fantastical conditions under which he lived. If he really was a prince, then Gaby could enjoy all his strange old furniture and be a princess, and wasn’t he doing her a favour then? In all of this, he wasn’t sure what he was getting out of it. 

Looking up from his thoughts, he realized he’d wandered deep into the forest, with not much of an inkling of which direction he’d been aiming towards. That was problematic on two counts, his tentative plan to escape, and the unlikely backup option— to go back. 

If he was lost then he was sure that Illya would come looking for him. He needed Napoleon too much to let him go. But that meant he needed to find his escape route before dark fell. He looked around him, the forest seemed to stretch on endlessly in all directions. He’d lost sight of the castle, and he couldn’t see which way town was. Far be it for him to have brought somethingas useful as a compass. 

Running out of options, Napoleon picked a direction and began to walk, swinging the axe idly in his hand. The forest was serene. Dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves, still green, but turning fiery at the edges, on the precipice of turning autumn. The pleasant crackle of twigs snapping under his footfalls broke up the birdsong and brook babbling that accompanied his walk. But his peace was not to last. 

His ears pricked, hearing soft footfalls behind him. So Illya had hardly waited. He’d found him after all. Napoleon turned, prepared to have the same argument for what felt like the third time that day.

“I knew you were following me, you—” But when he turned, Illya wasn’t there at all. Instead he was looking into the snarling face of a wolf, a shining silver pelt with big black patches, a carefully poised tail. And then another came padding up next to it. Then another. Soon, Napoleon could count nearly ten of them, on all sides of him. His grip tightened on his axe. This was not good. He felt the first beads of nervous sweat collect on his temples as he looked on, steadily, at the creatures approaching. Their teeth were bared, a low steady rumble emanating from their throats. That seemed like a bad sign.

Napoleon’s limbs felt frozen, like if he made one wrong move they would jump him. Their padding feet got nearer, and the panic climbed in his throat. Slowly, he lifted the axe to his chest, and that small move was enough to set them off.

A flash of grey before powerful legs pushed Napoleon onto his back. On instinct he swung his head to the side, just in time to avoid a pair of great snapping jaws. A thick drop of saliva slapped him on the cheek, and he recoiled further in disgust. He tried futilely to thrust the axe forward, but in the confusion of two or three snapping at him, one, disastrously latching onto his leg, and the searing pain that shot up his whole body, he couldn’t focus, couldn’t do anything.

_So this is it?_ He thought, helpless, panicked. And then, by some unknown force he felt the wolf on his chest release, and he watched, eyes wide, as it flew to the side. And a deafening roar. Only it was from Illya. He’d found him. And just in time. His great lumbering presence, scattered the wolves, all of them running in all directions. Until it was just the two of them, and Napoleon was left staring up at him, still flat on the ground, panting. 

“Are you hurt?” Illya asked before anything, crouching down to where Napoleon lay. At the same time, shocked out of his daze by Illya’s concern, Napoleon lifted himself onto his elbows. He tried moving his leg, but hissed in pain, his pant was soaked dark at the calf, his blood. The sight made him a little queasy. He didn’t have to say anything before Illya noticed. His brow furrowed first at the injury, then he looked at Napoleon. The concern on his face made him look a little more human, the fold in his eyebrow seemed to change the shape of his great nose, and Napoleon caught himself thinking it was sort of endearing. The blood loss was making him light-headed. 

“One of them got my leg. I’m okay.” Napoleon fumbled his way onto his feet, clumsy and proving the exact opposite of his claim. The slightest pressure on the injured calf sent searing shots of pain up Napoleon’s leg that seemed to reach all the way through his body. He gasped, stumbling, and he caught himself against a tree. Illya stared at him, wringing his hands. “Ah. Maybe that was a slight overstatement,” Napoleon said.

“Would you let me carry you back?” That startled a laugh out of Napoleon, but a glance back at Illya revealed he was serious, even a little nervous at the thought.

It put Napoleon at ease, and he capitulated. “I may be out of options.”

Napoleon swallowed, suddenly jittery at Illya’s approach. He did his best not to flinch back when Illya reached for him, instead, looped his arms around Illya’s neck and allowed Illya to lift him with an arm under his knees. Illya’s great golden pelt looked even more delicate up close, and the fine hairs felt surprisingly soft under Napoleon’s fingers. He could feel heat leaching off of Illya’s body, and his own shivering form savoured it, became slack from the comfort of Illya’s touch. Illya clutched him tighter against his chest as he started to walk. Napoleon kept his gaze fixed behind them, pressing his lips shut. Illya’s antique, firesmoke smell filled his nostrils as he controlled his breath, he was surprised again by how at home it made him feel. Finally, he decided he had to talk, so as to distract himself from these troubling thoughts. 

“I suppose I should say thank you. For saving me.”

Illya didn’t respond for a while. “I should have warned you. This is a dangerous place.”

Another stretched out silence. The rustling of Illya’s footfalls. A confession. “I was trying to run away.”

“I know.”

“I want to help you, you know. I just. After what happened in the mirror room…” 

“You realized that I am beyond help.”

Now Napoleon reared back in Illya’s grip to look at him, his brow furrowed. “I didn’t say that.”

Illya kept his gaze focused on the path in front of them, momentarily dipped Napoleon so his head wouldn’t graze a low tree branch. “You didn’t have to say it.”

“All I meant was you scared me. I mean this whole situation is… It’s unusual. But I was serious when I said I wanted to help you.”

“You’re not helping me. You’re earning your ransom.”

“No, Peril, really. Your story moved me. And if I’m being honest my life back there in the village was boring and I’d been looking for something worthwhile and fulfilling to do.”

“I’m glad I can be of service for your entertainment.”

Napoleon sighed. “Okay, I give up. Believe what you will but I’m sorry about trying to leave. It was a fleeting thought. In truth, I was lost anyway so I’m sure I wouldn’t have gotten very far.”

Illya didn’t respond to his outburst. Still stoically maintaining his path, Napoleon’s only hint that anything he had said registered was the slight strain in Illya’s expression. Like he was pulling down his lip corners to hide a smile. Napoleon watched his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed past whatever he would have said and finally he stopped. They had reached the gate. Only, this one faced the back of the palace, a side Napoleon hadn’t seen before. This time, instead of great big gates all tangled in chains, there was a standard sized one which Illya deftly unlocked, while clutching Napoleon to himself, one handed. Napoleon was impressed at the strength this took, he barely wavered. Once they entered the palace, Illya carried Napoleon through the hallways, all the way to his bed and set him down gently. 

Cold air washed over the parts of Napoleon’s skin that had been pleasantly warm with contact. He missed Illya as soon as he was gone. The feeling overwhelmed him, embarrassed him. He turned his face into the pillow. Still, Illya hovered. 

“I will get my attendants to stoke the fire but. I will have to tend to your leg myself.” He said this grimly, and waited for Napoleon to respond, if he would reject him.

But Napoleon didn’t know what had come over him. It sent a tingling sensation through him, a certain delight in the anticipation. “That’d be nice.”

Illya moved to leave the room. Napoleon called him back. “And if I couldn’t trouble you for some whiskey? For the pain?”

Illya rolled his eyes but when he returned, and the fireplace was stoked, he placed a fine crystal glass full of amber liquid into Napoleon’s hand. Napoleon, sitting up against the pillows, took his first grateful sip, and he hummed in pleasure as his limbs slowly warmed again. 

Illya had also brought a jar of ointment, and bandages, which he set up at the foot of the bed where he got to work. With quiet reverence, he touched Napoleon’s leg. It made Napoleon shiver. He pretended it was from the pain. It made it so Illya’s touch gentled further, more than Napoleon thought possible. He handled Napoleon’s wound like he was precious, carefully cleaning the blood. He brought up the jar.

“This will sting a little.”

“I can take it,” Napoleon grinned, but the joke was lost on Illya who winced in sympathy as he spread the medicine over Napoleon’s wounds. He wrapped it all in a layer of gauze, his movements unexpectedly deft, and he tied it off. He rolled down Napoleon’s pant leg, and patted it once he was done. Napoleon wasn’t sure if he’d breathed this whole time. When he exhaled, it was long and shaky. Illya’s touch, and the drink, and the blood loss— it was all combining to form a heady cocktail. Napoleon felt light, felt confused, felt sleepy. 

Illya averted his gaze. “We should get you better fitting clothes. If you will be here for a while.”

“I’d like that,” Napoleon said, his voice soft. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Illya glanced at him carefully, his sharp, intelligent gaze seemed to calculate, to decide Napoleon was out of it enough that he wouldn’t notice, then he smiled. A real smile. Small and human. But Napoleon noticed, relished the image before he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

He woke again to the sunlight streaming in through his windows. He must ask Illya about switching to a west-facing room in this blasted place. He squinted and frowned at the light, stretching with abandon before the pain in his leg reminded him of all that had happened the day before. He froze, staring up at the ceiling.

He felt a push of nausea as it came back to him. The alternate violence and tenderness of the day. The endless conflict that characterized his every interaction with Illya was beginning to weigh on him. The dull ache in his leg, the still-smarting scratches down his back, on his palms, they were all physical reminders of the danger he’d fallen into. He was tired. 

But he couldn’t deny that the only reason he was lying here was because Illya had saved him. He might have been lying in a wolf’s belly instead. He couldn’t deny that he was a captive, and the half-measures of Illya’s civility did little to inspire devotion. And still he had promised it.

Swallowing this uncomfortable truth, he hobbled to his feet to wash up and get dressed for the day. The pain of his every movement, the sallow, paleness of his reflection— they spurred his decision. He would find Illya and ask to leave. This was getting ridiculous. Untenable.

When he hobbled through the hallways, he wasn’t sure where he would find Illya in all this space. But the smell of breakfast hinted that he’d be in the dining hall. When he came to the door, the sight before him made him still. His hand wrapped around the side of the door. It steadied him as he watched Illya, holding a large circular mirror, which looked like a slightly larger hand-mirror in his great hands, making faces, practising his smile. Those same conflicted feelings inched up his throat, like bile. Napoleon swallowed.

Then Illya looked up, surprised, he fumbled the mirror in his hands. Then he put it down. He cleared his throat. Napoleon noticed the place directly adjacent to him had been set. At once his resolve crumbled. He winced as he began walking into the room. Seeing this, Illya got to his feet immediately, his face a portrait of concern.

Napoleon held up a hand. “I’m alright.” He made his slow way, sat down with a wince.

“I should have put ointment on your back,” Illya said, angling his head to take a look. The thought made Napoleon shiver. 

“Good morning to you too,” he said, and laughed to cover his nervousness.

“How are you feeling?”

“Sore. I see you’ve been practicing.” He pointed to the mirror, but Illya’s gaze remained steadfast on him. Napoleon did his best not to squirm.

“I am sorry.”

“Don’t be. You didn’t bite me. At least I don’t think. You know, you share a passing resemblance to that wolf.” 

Illya’s brow furrowed, but then he surprised Napoleon, the corners of his mouth ticked up into what could respectably be called a smile. He even huffed out a little laugh at Napoleon’s joke.

“I’m not sure I am doing this right,” Illya said. “Should I show no teeth when I smile? Too much and it becomes a grimace.”

Napoleon smiled. Illya looked at his mouth like it was something he wanted to devour. The smile fell from Napoleon’s face then, a raging blush taking its place. Napoleon cleared his throat. “There’s a fine balance here, Peril. Let me see that.”

Illya brought the mirror over to him, and Napoleon gripped one side, Illya held the other. He positioned it between them so that both could see their reflections, soft in the morning light. 

“Just try and copy me,” Napoleon said, and he turned his attention to his own image. He smiled, trying to channel the feeling of being open, earnest, but also slightly seductive. When he looked over to Illya, he saw all the great white shards of his teeth bared in what could generously be called a snarl.

“Okay, let’s try with the mouth closed this time.” And so they kept at it. Though Napoleon could measure in the alternating sighs and grunts that Illya’s patience was wearing thinner by the minute, his capacity to rein in his louder outbursts was improving. Napoleon was grateful for it. 

Eventually, Illya tired. Napoleon looked around the walls for a clock to tell what time it was, but there were none to be found. Illya’s only explanation was a shrug and meaningless expression, “time works differently in here.”

To move on from the subject, it seemed, Illya suggested something Napoleon did not expect him to ever offer: a balm for his curiosity. “Would you like me to show you around the palace a little?”

“I’d love it.”

With his practiced smile, Illya started his tour. They walked slowly, mindful of Napoleon’s pain, but he found the movement helped bring some flexibility to his stiff, sore body. They began by reacquainting themselves with the dining hall. Illya directed his attention upwards to the behemoth chandelier. On closer inspection though its crystalline work was fine and had survived its age respectably, it swung gently in the still air of the room, introducing precariousness to the space where Napoleon hadn’t noticed it before. The wallpaper in this room was a dark purple pattern of paisleys. Napoleon’s eyes had adjusted so the colours no longer appeared to swirl, and so looking closer, he finally noticed the many places on the walls that had great patches of discolouration. Pale rectangles with smoky outlines betrayed the presence of paintings in those places. Everything in Napoleon itched to ask after them. Especially those weary fingers of his, which hadn’t felt any desire to touch a paintbrush until now, when he couldn’t.

As Illya led him through the hallways, he was driven to distraction. All he could see, muting out the sound of Illya’s voice carefully explaining the lighting and the furniture, were these bare patches on the walls. The ghost of a gallery. 

Napoleon had to ask, so he waited for a pause in Illya’s monologue. “Where are all the paintings?”

Illya didn’t answer him right away. They were stopped in the middle of a hallway, in front of a set of double doors, Illya’s hand closing over the left-most knob, pushing it slightly open. It was the ballroom, open, echoing, and dusty. The floors and walls were a delicate marble, though dulled now, a massive chandelier, which now appeared strung together with cobwebs, likely illuminated the room in all its glittering splendour. He wondered if they would make use of this room for their dance, but he didn't want to ask, and press Illya's newfound generosity with discomfort. The thought seemed to cross Illya was well, and he sighed, then turned to move on. Napoleon felt the urge to ask about the paintings again. But it turned out Illya was prepared to answer, he just needed some time. 

They stopped at another identical door and pushed it open. He walked inside first, and Napoleon followed. 

All around them were rectangular piles covered in crumpled linen sheets. A gilded frame-corner poked out here and there, revealing themselves immediately to be the missing paintings. The flames of Napoleon’s curiosity were stoked instantly, blazing as he roamed through the room, his hands lifting up the sheets. His pulse thundered in his wrists. He hadn’t asked for permission. Yet he found he could not stop himself. 

Illya had hidden treasures well beyond Napoleon’s wildest dreams. Paintings were stacked on top of each other on tables and chairs. As Napoleon moved each one gingerly aside, he found a collection of portraits depicting a series of regal looking people in richly embroidered clothing. Their ears and necks were heavy with jewels. Their expressions were singularly somber, their hair a spun-gold colour, their eyes an icy blue. Then Napoleon found paintings that doubled these portraits in size, stacked against the wall. Napoleon bounded across the room, his injury forgotten in his eagerness, to pull down their coverings. He revealed great battle scenes rendered in careful detail and bright pigment, though dulled from years of poor upkeep, their vibrancy pushed through the layers of dust and old varnish. 

The art electrified him. He felt more alive than he had since coming here. His greedy eyes flicked deliriously between intense focus on the smallest bend of a thumb, to taking in the great scope of the lush deciduous landscape rendered in greens so vibrant, it felt like summer bloomed in front of him. 

Overwhelmed, he looked away, blinking, and sought out Illya’s familiar hulking form. He was turned away slightly, body angled to the door from which they’d come, his eyes trained on the crumples of linens Napoleon had haphazardly thrown, averted carefully from any painting. It struck Napoleon with a sudden clarity that these noble figures were likely Illya’s long lost family, that these scenes of gilded finery, and unapologetic _beauty,_ reminded him precisely of how much he had lost. 

He was already feeling so much, and then a tidal wave of sympathy took him down entirely. He walked to Illya slowly. When he neared, Illya looked up at him. His features were drawn tight with pain. It took Napoleon aback. He cleared his throat.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Thank you for showing these to me.”

“You seem quite taken by them,” Illya said, not looking at Napoleon anymore.

“Ah well, an artist always respects the craft. These are just… expertly done.”

“You paint?” 

“Well don’t sound so shocked. I do have _something_ to contribute to the world besides my looks and charm.”

“You covet beauty,” Illya said, as if he’d only just realized it. Napoleon didn’t like the way that sounded. 

“I wouldn’t say that I _covet_ it. I appreciate beauty. Where’s the harm in that?”

“No harm. It’s interesting.”

“Why?”

“I suppose these are the first beautiful things you have seen since you’ve come here.”

Having the distinct feeling of being trapped, Napoleon chose his next words carefully. “There isn’t only beauty in what the eye can see, you know.”

“I suppose.” But Illya had turned glum, disbelieving. He turned to brush his hands idly across some of the linens nearest him, but in doing so he knocked over a stack of portraits which clattered to the floor in one thundering cascade. Napoleon skittered back to where the top of the pile landed at his feet, but then, as he looked closer, he neared again.

The portrait was of a man. The prerequisite regality was present in his posture. The line of his nose was straight and proud. His hair was a carefully combed swoop of spun gold. A rosy blush tinged his cheeks, blossoming apples of youth on a face otherwise composed of strict regal angles. His eyes were a piercing, glacial blue. Napoleon looked up at Illya, who had been staring down at the portrait with him, his mottled features pinched and in pain, his eyes glassy. 

All at once Napoleon realized what they were looking at. He felt the waves of hurt and longing as if they were radiating off of Illya, clutched his own arms across his chest, the hug he would give Illya if he weren’t still too scared. 

“You were beautiful.” It was the wrong thing to say. Napoleon felt bile where the words left his mouth. Before he could say anything, or apologize, Illya turned and disappeared into the shadows of the castle. 

Napoleon lingered in the room until the setting sun filled it with burnished light. He ventured back to the dining hall for dinner. It was served to him, but Illya was not there. He roamed the castle, the parts he could see with dim torchlight, but Illya was nowhere. Finally, he went to bed uneasy. 

When he woke, the sun through the window a perfect rectangle across his eyes, there was still no sign of his beast.


	4. but now it seems you’ve set it running free

The castle grew more silent in Illya’s absence, and Illya had never been much for talking. Napoleon had gone down for breakfast, and only listened to the tinny scratch of his fork tines echoing through the vast chamber of the room. He ate as quickly as he could. 

The castle was louder too. At seemingly random times of day and night, distant crashing noises came from some unknown corner of the property. By the time Napoleon could gather the courage to investigate what was going on, it would go silent, and he would have no audible clue to follow.

He thought constantly about looking for Illya. But the vastness of the project stopped him every time. Though he had been toured around the palace, there were entire dark wings that had gone unexplored, that were tacitly forbidden. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t care much for rules, unspoken or otherwise, but he had changed somehow, in his few days here. Or maybe it had been longer. Illya was right that time moved differently in the castle. It certainly hadn’t been enough time for him to feel safe venturing into those lightless places, the tall windows muffled by thick velvet curtain, not a single torch lit.

Caution would never normally defeat his curiosity. But this feeling wasn’t his usual curiosity. It was more cloying, nagging, motivated entirely by his overwhelming loneliness. He couldn’t get that image out of his mind, the way Illya looked. Not as the beautiful man rendered in paint, though that also troubled him for another reason entirely, a hot sweep of desire that had rushed through him and that he had just as quickly suppressed. What he truly couldn’t forget was the beast who looked upon the picture. For the first time he had looked vulnerable. His grief had been laid bare and Napoleon had felt a wave of it crash into him.

He lasted two more nights, in that time, the scratches on his back and hand scabbed over, and his leg healed almost completely, whatever ointment Illya had given him had done wonders. Normally, he would be concerned about the ugly ring of scars the indents of the wolf’s teeth had left on his otherwise unblemished calf, but he couldn’t seem to make himself care about that at all. 

Instead, images of Illya kept playing in his head on repeat until it became too much. The whiplash of contradiction between the beast he had first encountered, and the human within, radiating out in his pain, showing through his diligent care and concern, evident in his dry wit. Napoleon missed talking to him. He climbed out of bed, still in the rumpled clothes he’d been wearing for the past few days. He didn’t risk a glance in the mirror. Instead, with a single-minded focus he pried a torch from the wall, lit it, and ventured into the wing to the left of the stairs. Dark, abandoned, forbidding, it made no difference. At last, the silence was worse than anything the unknown might throw at him. 

Guided by a circle of torchlight, he passed door after identical door. He creaked each open with increasing trepidation, disappointed each time in finding nothing. He roamed further through the hallway, whose wallpaper he illuminated in small flashes, finding claw marks tearing the garish wallpaper in places. Marks of desperation, they only made his heart sink deeper, didn’t scare him. 

Reaching the end of the hall, Napoleon came upon a final door. With no hesitation, his shaking hand reached for the knob. It gave way, hinges uncommonly silent. 

As Napoleon stepped further into the room, he noticed that the sunlight filtered through the curtain enough that he didn’t need his torch to see, so he set it into a notch in the wall. He noted that it was a bedroom, outfitted in the same way as his own, with the large window, fireplace with dying embers, peeling wallpaper, and the massive four poster bed at the centre of it all. And in the bed, Illya. 

His hulking form was curled in on himself, his back to Napoleon and the door. Napoleon stepped closer to see the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He was snoring gently. Again, it was uncanny how small and vulnerable he could look. 

A step closer, and the floorboard let out a creak, shattering the careful silence. Napoleon winced as he watched Illya startle awake. He sat up in his bed and seeing Napoleon standing there, unexpectedly, he sighed and sagged against his pillows in relief. It seemed like the fight had died in him where Napoleon was concerned. That irritated Napoleon.

“Where have you been?”

“Asleep.”

“For _days_?”

“Destroying all the furniture in a room is tiring. I have to rest afterwards.”

“Destroying— what? Not the buffets and things?”

At that, Illya looked amused. “What do you know about buffets?”

“Nothing, really. But. Gaby. She’s really into antiques. The older the better. That’s why we snuck in here in the first place. To look at all the supposed ‘historical value’ you’ve preserved.”

Illya had the grace to look chagrined, his gaze dropping to his hands. “She liked my furniture?”

Napoleon ignored the prickling annoyance in his chest. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t want to talk about Gaby right now. Wasn’t that the whole point? 

“She likes a lot of weird shit. I was going to tell you about it, but I can’t if you’re just going to hole yourself in here.” 

Illya closed his eyes and nodded, and he sat up properly. He waved his hand and his curtains parted, dousing the room in harsh sunlight. Napoleon squinted until his vision adjusted. 

“I am sorry,” Illya said, finally. “It was the painting. I hadn’t seen it in a long time. It brought up. Feelings.”

A beat of silence, and Napoleon said, “Look, we don’t have to go in there anymore. Seriously. Board it back up.”

Illya was quiet for a moment. “It seemed like you liked them.” 

Napoleon opened his mouth and closed it again, suddenly at a loss. Surprised that Illya had noticed, much less remembered. “I— Well. Like I said. I paint. I appreciate the craft.” Napoleon wasn’t sure why it was so hard to talk about this, his words were sticking in his throat.

“And you miss this? Your painting.”

“If I’m being honest, no, I don’t. I’ve been having the worst mental block for the longest time now. Haven’t been able to paint in ages.”

“That’s too bad.”

“It’s alright. I have you to occupy my time now, don’t I?”

“Right.” Illya was quiet again, but now the silence felt awkward. Napoleon itched to leave. 

“I should go, I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“Go ahead. I will join you soon.”

Napoleon was picking at his food, long gone cold, by the time Illya came down. He sat, sheepish, silent, at the head of the table. Once again, the silence was overwhelming, echoing in the air between them. Napoleon was desperate to fill it with conversation, so he spoke about the thing he knew best: himself.

“My last client, um, back when I was painting, was an absolute disaster.”

Illya chewed his toast, Napoleon stared at a spray of crumbs sticking to the hair on his chin. With his mouth full, he said, “Oh, really?” Napoleon counted those two words a victory. He made a note to work on table manners soon. 

“I think it’s what led to my block actually.”

“What happened?” 

“Well it started off great, a commission from a hot shot in the village, Mr. Leduc. He’s loaded, owns and operates the general store, everyone knows him and says they love him, and it is of course because they need him for something or another. That and Leduc is about six foot seven, an absolute hulking mass of a guy. Really, Peril, he could give you a run for your money. A lot of people are afraid of him too.”

“The question is whether it is better to be loved or feared, many forget the answer is both.”

Napoleon smiled, “I know that’s Machiavelli.”

“Italian Renaissance is your specialty? That’s why you’re so upset about the buffet?”

“It’s not exactly the furniture of the Renaissance, but the art, the culture, the literature.”

“It’s admirable.” Illya’s smile was fond now, there was no mistaking it. But Napoleon didn’t want to ruin the moment by pointing that out. But it would be a good teaching moment. He let the silence stretch on too long, frozen in conflict. Finally, Illya prompted him, “So what happened?”

“Right. Well, Leduc wanted me to paint his son, Michel. And I was paid handsomely for it. So I had no complaints. And the son well, he was around my age, a year or two older. Unmarried. Wasn’t even seeing anyone….”

“You slept with Michel.”

Napoleon smiled, tight-lipped. “Am I really so predictable?” 

“Leduc had a problem with this?”

“A big problem. They were a fairly conservative family it turned out. And you know Michel could have told me that, _he_ was the one who suggested he pose naked.”

“Alright. That’s too much information.”

“Oh, we’ll have to have the sex talk eventually, Peril.”

“Eventually means not now.”

Napoleon decided not to push him, but the sight of Illya flustered was a delight to behold. His gaze suddenly flickering anywhere but Napoleon, his hands fiddling with the tablecloth. 

“Anyway, I thought my painting of Michel was good. It helped that he was very easy to look at. I’m talking halo of soft curls, honey-brown eyes, lithe, statuesque body.”

“I get the image.” Illya didn’t quite snap at him, but his tone was curt. A small, delusional voice in Napoleon’s head called it jealousy, but he couldn’t quite figure out of what Illya was jealous: Napoleon’s affections, or his own, lost beauty. He couldn’t help but think of the portrait of Illya again. His mouth felt suddenly dry.

He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I thought it was good but Leduc didn’t. Michel didn’t either.”

Illya’s gaze turned to him then, surprise clear across his features. Napoleon grinned, self-pitying. “After Leduc found out about our affair, Michel came by to tell me exactly what was wrong with the painting, and with me, in amazing detail, and I guess the urge to paint hasn’t struck me since then.” 

“You should not worry about what those bastards say,” Illya huffed. Now it was Napoleon’s turn to feel surprised, at the ferocity with which Illya spoke, he was touched. He did his best not to be so obvious about it, but he could feel his cheeks heating up. Illya continued, “They would not know good art if it hit them in the face. You _should_ have hit them in the face. Each of them could have used a good slap. I don’t care if you don’t like the product, this is not how you treat artisans.”

Napoleon’s smile broke out into a outright laugh, no longer was it possible to keep his delight below the surface. “Thanks, Peril,” he said, surprising himself with the softness of his voice. If Illya detected anything untoward he didn't show it, but the tenderness Napoleon had started to feel for him was plain. He didn’t quite know how to hide it anymore. Nor should he have to, he decided. They could be friends. The thought sat uneasily.

Before he could propose anything of the sort, Illya got up. The abrupt sound of his chair screeching back against the wood startled Napoleon, who made to stand as well, until Illya stopped him, holding out a hand.

“I know we should work your third step,” Illya began, “But I need to attend to some private affairs today. It would be best if you retired to your room. Or there is the library if you are in need of entertainment.” 

Napoleon only nodded, and tamped down the disappointment he felt sinking in his chest. 

But then Illya caught his gaze, “I have plenty of books on the Renaissance, and if you were concerned, many of them do also contain pictures.” With that he _winked,_ and left Napoleon at a loss, still standing between his chair and the table, watching Illya walk out the door.

Taking Illya’s advice, Napoleon wandered to the library. He browsed idly through the stacks until he found the promised section. And it was enough to occupy him until he was hungry enough to venture back downstairs for lunch. After that he retired to his room, tried to take a nap, which ended up being so long, he woke up the next morning. 

Having skipped dinner the night before, he was ravenous, and headed straight for the kitchen. He washed and dressed, but bothered with little else about his appearance. He had come to terms with his hair and let it rest in its natural unruly curls. Today, perhaps because of his fitful sleep, they were particularly ebullient, like dark storm clouds around his head to match his stormy mood. 

He walked into an empty dining hall, and his irritation mounted. Illya couldn’t even bother to have meals with him anymore? How were they going to make any progress? What private affair could be more important than working towards breaking this stupid curse and getting Illya his life back? Napoleon spent his breakfast stewing in his thoughts and composing a respectable tirade about Illya’s priorities. 

And then Illya walked in with a limp and every angry thought in Napoleon’s head vanished. His singular concern was that Illya was hurt, and as he stumbled out of his seat to rush towards him, his second concern became that Illya was _bleeding_. 

“What happened to you?” Napoleon couldn’t keep the panic out of his voice. He eased Illya into the closest chair and kneeled down beside it to inspect his foot.

Illya winced, gripping the chair of the arm so tight the wood buckled, “It’s nothing. I tripped andstepped in some thorns." 

When Napoleon got a closer look, wiping away the blood with one of Illya’s fancy cloth napkins, he saw that the injury was not as serious as the bleeding made it seem. All his worry rushed out of him in a great, relieved exhale. 

“Okay,” he heard the slight breathlessness in his voice and cleared his throat, “I’m going to get them out. Just hold still.”

He got to work, still kneeling beside Illya, he lifted the injured foot and propped it up on another chair. Then, picking up an empty plate and pouring some water into it, he dipped the napkin in the water and gently dabbed away the rest of the blood. He could see now that the thorns were large enough for him to grip with his fingers, deft and skilled from his years of painting. His eye for detail also helped him find the ones that were hidden by a tuft of hair or a smudge of dirt. When he was satisfied that the last one was out, he leaned back on his haunches and looked up at Illya. The expression on his face was unreadable, caught somewhere between relief and residual pain. 

“Does that feel better?”

“Much. Thank you.” Still, he winced when he wiggled his toes, testing the feeling in his foot. 

“Do you want a drink?” Napoleon asked, and that startled a laugh out of him.

“It’s still morning.”

“That’s never stopped me before."

Illya sighed, long-suffering but fond, and he acquiesced. “Just one.”

He summoned his invisible attendants and a high-necked glass bottle of rich amber liquid flew into the room, it poured itself into two ornate crystal glasses. Illya handed Napoleon one, and grabbed his own.

“To your health,” Napoleon said, smiling.

Illya rolled his eyes but clinked his glass against Napoleon’s before taking his first sip and wincing. “I haven’t had this whiskey in a long time.”

“You’re holding out on yourself, this is good stuff.”

“Drinking is… a social occasion, no? There have not been many of those.” 

Napoleon considered that for a minute, felt only a sliver of the vast loneliness he realized Illya must always feel. “What do you remember? About life before the curse?”

Illya seemed a little startled at the question. Napoleon was amazed at himself for having the courage to ask it. But things had shifted between them.

“I remember everything,” Illya began. And Napoleon knew, without a doubt, in that moment that Illya trusted him. He hoped Illya knew Napoleon trusted him back. He sat at Illya’s feet, gazing up at him, like a Kronberg painting he’d seen once of David and Saul. Illya’s gaze was fixed on the middle distance, as he told the story of the last night before he had been cursed. 

“My father had organized a ball. Nobles from neighbouring lands flocked to our castle and enjoyed the luxury and splendour on offer. We had lit the chandelier and filled the halls with dazzling art and music.”

“I wish I’d been invited.”

Illya smiled, but shook his head, “You don’t. My family’s wealth was nothing to be celebrated. It came from exploiting the poor, from treating others like filth to make a profit, and from taking more than we needed just because we could. We all had our vices. My father his greed, my mother her vanity. And I had inherited both.”

“You were young.”

“But not a child. Old enough to know better. Too comfortable to change.”

“Illya.” He hoped he sounded soothing, not pitying.

“I was dangerously vain. I lived only for the attention that everyone lavished upon me. I could never have enough. That night, in front of all the guests, a serving woman spilled a drop of champagne on my coat. She was immediately apologetic, but… I couldn’t accept it. I acted like a monster.”

“What did you do?”

“I screamed at her, in front of everyone. Called her incompetent, unworthy of serving for the reward of my parents’ wealth. I made a scene. I lavished in the attention. And when it was done, she said those fatal words that changed my life forever.”

“You… So she turned you into… you changed right then and there?”

“No it was when I woke up the next day that I looked like this. My parents, first they tried to drive me out. Then they tried to keep me locked up.” Napoleon’s memory flashed uncomfortably back to his own time in this castle’s dungeons. “I kept escaping, begging for help. They decided finally that they wanted nothing to do with me.”

“They left?”

“They took everybody with them.” 

“So then, who, or what, are all the invisible attendants?”

“I do not know where they came from, but they were here to help me, keep me here perhaps. To give me a fighting chance.”

“I guess it would be asking too much to have you fend for yourself. Seeing as how you were rendered immobile by some thorns today.” 

Illya smiled. “I suppose so.”

Napoleon grinned, “Good thing I was here to help.”

Illya’s expression changed then, his pupils dilating as his gaze roamed across Napoleon’s face. He brought his hand up to rest it against Napoleon’s cheek, when he touched Napoleon’s skin, Napoleon did his best not to startle. And then Illya’s hand was trailing up to wrap his fingers around Napoleon’s curls. Illya stared at his own hand, transfixed, and Napoleon’s gaze was similarly caught on Illya’s dazed expression. 

“It is very good,” Illya said, his voice softer than Napoleon had ever heard it before. 

Suddenly, panic gripped Napoleon’s chest. He wasn’t sure where it was coming from, what could have caused it. But he scrambled to his feet, cheeks burning, gaze stuck to the floor. 

“If you’re feeling better, then, I think I should go.”

Illya looked confused, “We don’t have a lesson today?”

“I— I don’t have anything prepared.”

“You never do.” The words didn’t sound critical anymore, they sounded fond. 

His need to flee was even more urgent now. Napoleon felt his pulse jumping in his neck. “I think I should work on something before we tackle this one, it’s a pretty big topic.”

Napoleon knew Illya didn’t really believe him, but he seemed to not think it worth it to fight him any longer. He said, “Alright. I will see you later.” and before Napoleon could read anything on his expression, Illya turned back to his drink.

Unable to relax until he was in his room with the door latched behind him, he confronted the twisting feeling in his stomach and he didn’t know what to do about it— or what it was. When he thought about Illya, this impossible warmth spread through his chest, hearing his story made his heart ache for him. He felt desperate, possessive. But he couldn’t do that, couldn’t feel that. He was here on behalf of his friend, on behalf of Gaby. He was here to help Illya, who he was also beginning to consider his friend. If it had ever mattered for him to stop being selfish, this was the time it mattered most. He was doing a good deed, being a good friend, pushing his feelings aside. Why did it make him feel all the more wretched?

He fell into bed, his head suddenly pounding now too, and quickly fell into fitful sleep. When he woke up, it was dark out, and impossible to tell what time it was. As he lay about, wondering what to do, his stomach made a sound of protest, but he couldn't make himself get up. 

Deciding that it wouldn’t hurt to try, Napoleon imagined a nice crusty piece of bread and a block of cheese, then he waved his hand in the air in that beckoning gesture he had seen Illya do. And soon enough, the food appeared at his side. Reinvigorated, he got himself some wine as well, and began tearing into the bread, quelling his hunger at last. Full and further sated with wine, he fell asleep once again.

In his sleep he dreamed. About gold glittering balls, and the arms of a beautiful man. And as he imagined more splendorous, romantic scenes, his heart began to swell bigger and bigger with a truth that was impossible to face. 


	5. my blood is singing with your voice

This time, he woke to morning light and birdsong. Shattering out of his dreams and into reality didn't feel good, but he knew it was necessary. He remembered the ache of loneliness when Illya was hiding from him, he realized how cruel he was being in serving it back, just when he had gotten Illya to see him again. He decided to find Illya, confront the nervousness of the prospective encounter rather than letting it fester, and grow. 

He got up and ventured down to the dining hall in search of him. He wasn’t there. He even found his way back to Illya’s room, figuring he might still be resting his foot. Knocking before he entered, he found the bedchamber equally vacant. 

No one was in the library either. He took his time picking out some books Illya had on antiques and some of the historical texts he knew Gaby liked: Rousseau, and Montesquieu, and Wollstonecraft, and the like. He laid them out carefully on the table. But the castle was silent. 

He wasn’t going to spend another two or three days alone, even if he had to turn the whole damned castle upside down, he would find Illya. It turned out, such drastic measures were far from necessary. The door to the painting room was ajar. 

Napoleon stopped a few feet in front of it. Hesitation overtook him. The last time he had been here hadn’t been too pleasant a memory. But he could hear sounds of shuffling, a sure sign Illya was in there. So he set aside his reservations and walked in.

The floorboard creaked to announce his arrival and Illya whirled towards the sound, startled. But it was nothing compared to the shock on Napoleon’s face at what he saw. 

The curtains had been cast aside to let streaming sunlight through, bathing the room in a warm glow, flickers of dust filtered through the air. It all illuminated a room transformed. The linens were all taken off of the paintings and folded to the side, the paintings themselves were all hung up on the walls, like the French Academy had exploded, plastering a gallery to each inch of the room. When Napoleon let his gaze venture higher up the wall, he noticed that Illya had managed to hang some on the ceiling as well. He turned back to Illya, standing in the center of the room, and beside him was the greatest surprise of all.

An easel, drop-cloths, an array of paint and brushes. All laid out for him. 

Napoleon was bursting with emotion, but of all the things he could say, the first thing to spring from his mouth was, “Is this where you’ve been all this time?”

Illya smiled shyly, standing with his back straight and hands folded behind him. Napoleon walked closer to him, hardly containing his own grin. He didn’t know what to say, his heart swelling, but eventually he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, “You did all this for me?”

Illya nodded, and turned to the easel, which Napoleon saw now was clearly handmade, put together with long branches of knobby birchwood. Illya explained, “It took a little time to figure out how to make this. I couldn’t find the one our court painter used. I may have broken it in one of my… worse moods.”

Napoleon ran his hand along the rough texture of the bark, tested the blank canvas Illya had rested on top, it stood securely. “It’s amazing, thank you.”

“I will go. Let you paint.” 

“You could stay,” he said too fast, “I could paint you.”

Illya hesitated. “I don’t think that is a good idea.”

“Every artist needs his muse.”

“I’m not exactly what you’re used to.”

“You’re better.” The words left Napoleon with an unexpected conviction, but he stood behind them. He held Illya’s gaze, watched a storm of expressions cross over his features, surprise, disbelief, frustration, melting into a small smile, and Napoleon knew he had won.

He looked around the room and taking the stool Illya had set up behind his easel, he brought it up in front and gestured for Illya to sit. Miraculously, the furniture didn’t buckle under him. 

“Are you comfortable? I should warn you this is a process.”

Illya shifted awkwardly on the stool. “I will be okay.” 

Napoleon smiled and he took his own place behind the easel. He’d let Illya go in a minute, but he just needed his presence right now. Ducking behind the canvas, he took a steadying breath. That tumult of feelings— it was getting harder to ignore.

Distractions were abound, however, as he examined the kit laid out on the table beside his easel. Illya’s court painter had spared no expense in his craft. The brushes were sturdy and expertly made, he ran his thumb across the soft bristles, marvelling in their familiar feeling, and he had an array of rare pigments and rich oils to boot. Napoleon picked up the palette, the weight of it was familiar and the shape of it comforting in his hands. He started mixing his paints, which required enough concentration that the silence between him and Illya stretched, long enough that Illya felt compelled to break it.

“What are you doing?”

Napoleon looked up from what he was doing, dazed from his sudden broken concentration. But he turned to see Illya gazing at him with open, honest curiosity, and he smiled. Warmth spread through him like a flickering fire.

“I’m just getting a few colours ready for the underpainting.”

“What is that?” 

“It’s a technique that helps me establish the basic shapes and tones that I’ll be using, basically the foundation of the painting before I get into the details.” 

Illya nodded thoughtfully. Napoleon felt the words spilling from his lips, so excited to finally be talking about what he _knew_ better than anything else in the world, that he found it difficult to stop.

“I’m going to have a real challenge with that hair of yours. I might even have to mix in some real gold to get it right.” Napoleon’s palette knife moved gently through the pigment as he mixed, his eye trained on the slight shifts in the colours, so that he didn’t notice when Illya appeared, right at his shoulder. When he registered Illya’s presence, he didn’t startle, only turned and gazed up at him, trying not to think too hard about how close he was standing.

“Would it be alright if I watch how you do this?”

Napoleon smiled, but it wavered a little. He felt a surge of uneasiness, and he knew precisely what it was. He was sharing a part of himself with Illya that he seldom let anyone see. Painting was his livelihood, but it was, and had always been an intensely private occupation. The canvas was his shield against every fear and uncertainty, before he ever learned that his looks and charm could serve the same purpose. Now Illya had stepped behind it.

“It’s not terribly exciting,” he managed finally, but Illya only shrugged, giving him a look that said _I don’t mind._ So Napoleon nodded, and he stayed.

He watched Napoleon, satisfied with his first few colours, lay down the base of the painting. Then, directing Illya back to his seat, he sketched out the general shape Illya would take up and worked on outlining it and filling it in. Napoleon didn’t normally speak when he did this, but that's because he was usually alone. The mood had shifted with Illya in the room, and their silence was comfortable, companionable.

When Napoleon was satisfied, he set down his paints, and walked with Illya down to dinner. They talked about everything except for the most glaring subject at hand. Something Napoleon had not forgotten, and pressed uncomfortably in his heart whenever he thought about it.

“We didn’t quite get to your lesson.”

“It is alright.”

“Do we… do we have much time left?" The thought of all of this ending suddenly filled Napoleon with a sense of dread. He tried to cover his fear with a laugh. "I have no idea how long I’ve been here.”

Illya looked a little confused at that, and reflexively checked his watch. “No, it has only been a few weeks.” 

Napoleon fiddled with his cutlery, unable to meet Illya’s gaze. “Maybe for this part, learning about Gaby’s interests and all that… you could do yourself? I laid out some books she likes in the library.”

When Napoleon looked back at Illya, there was no change to his expression. There was a long silence until he asked, “Do you still want me to sit for the painting?”

“Yes, yes of course!” Napoleon said, too fast, “All I meant was that we’re making good progress.”

“Okay. I will read the books.” A quiet moment passed between them. Then Illya said, “After that, we should schedule our dance.”

Napoleon was grateful he was neither eating nor drinking when Illya said that, and yet he choked a little on air. Gathering himself he nodded soberly. “Of course. The dance.” 

“How long will your portrait take?”

“Oh at least a couple of weeks.”

“In that case, why don’t we practice dancing at next week’s end?”

“Peril— look, I’m sure you’ve learned plenty about love. The books will help, and of course I’ll teach you about sweet-talk after that.” Napoleon pretended that last promise didn’t make him feel a little sick.

“You said dance is the language of love when language fails.”

Napoleon felt himself blanche. “I did say that.”

“So it is decided. Perhaps you might dress up for the occasion.”

Napoleon looked down at his clothes, rumpled from sleep and already paint-stained. He pushed an unruly curl out of his eyes, and grinned at Illya. “I can make no promises at this point.”

In the days Napoleon spent on his project, he would roll out of bed and head straight for the painting room. Remembering to change his clothes every so often, prompted by Illya’s curious gaze and the splotches of paint he began to leave on the edges of tables and backs of chairs. 

Illya’s irritation was mild but obvious, but his patience with Napoleon these days was expansive too. He sat for his portrait, and read his books, asking a question about Gaby now and then. Napoleon’s answers grew more vague and evasive by the day, but he wasn’t quite ready to confront why that was.

Finally, it came time to do the finishing touches on Illya’s portrait. Napoleon banned him from his workspace for those few days, and Illya took it well, in that no violent fight erupted between them. He only sulked at dinner and made an idle comment about missing the line of concentration that formed between Napoleon’s eyebrows, which then prompted such a tense bubble of emotion in Napoleon's chest that he was compelled immediately to drain his wine glass. Laughing it off weakly, he had excused himself early from dinner and stalked back up to his work.

Working by firelight was not ideal, his strained eyes began to give him a headache. So eventually he stopped. Sat back on his stool, and sighed, deflating. It was becoming impossible to deny a name to that gnawing feeling in his heart.

When he looked at his portrait of Illya, it was full of love. 

He had been done with the painting for a few days now but when he had realized what it confessed, his fingers had gone limp, the brush had fallen from his hands, clattered the truth against the wood floor. He had lied, bought some time to think through the implications.

He had grown fond of Illya, but that had to be the end of it. They were friends, and that’s all they could be. He had to remind himself— the whole time he had been painting this, Illya had been studying up on Gaby’s interests, trying to get to know _her_ better before he could eventually meet her, and fall in love. Napoleon loved Gaby too, though he might have been drawn to her first because of her beauty, he had to admit she was his dearest friend in the village. He missed her desperately. She would know what to do in this situation. Napoleon wanted Gaby and Illya to be together— thought they would be happy together. And really, that’s all he could want. 

He was part of the equation now, but he wouldn’t always be. There would have to come a time for him to move on, and move away. He could do that, his profession allowed it. And it was imperative that he do that, his profession demanded it. 

His heart was laid bare in each brushstroke, but he could remain silent, leave the question unanswered. Covering the painting with a cloth, he called Illya to his studio.

When Illya stepped into the room, every muscle in Napoleon’s body relaxed. Every limb felt a surge of affection rushing through it. This had gone so much farther than Napoleon thought. He loved down to the marrow, feeling was suffused through the very fibre of his being. In his misery, he hardly noticed when Illya came up behind him, then noticed all at once. His presence became intoxicating. Napoleon took a step to the side, bumping his hip against his table of paints. Gracefully covering his mistake he stepped up to the canvas. Shaking fingers removed the cloth. 

Napoleon looked at the painting first, a sight so familiar it was practically burned into his eyelids. He couldn’t bear to see Illya’s expression just yet. Against the deep shadow the background, the portrait of Illya was a vision in gold. The lycanthropic coat that covered him was gleaming in a way that didn’t frighten but invited curiosity, betrayed neutral difference rather than unknown threat. He sat with his back ever straight, posture rigid in a way that betrayed his discipline and nobility. Those animalistic features, normally mangled in rage, looked almost normal in his impassive, relaxed expression. And those eyes. Napoleon had only just been satisfied by the blue pigment he’d conjured up, still the periwinkle shade ringing those intelligent pupils could not capture the true, striking effect of those eyes in person. Napoleon had tried. 

Sheepishly, he turned to Illya. And unlike the painting, so stoic in its stillness, Illya’s face was a maelstrom of emotion. It sent Napoleon instantly into a panic. Did he know? Could he tell? Napoleon could not imagine that he felt anything short of betrayed. 

At once, he started speaking and couldn’t stop. “If you don’t like it I can make some changes or… scrap it altogether. I know it’s hard to see yourself like this. I remember what happened with the mirror. This was stupid of me. But—you have to know I never intended to hurt you.”

“No,” Illya said finally, suspending Napoleon in a moment of confusion. He took a shuddering breath before he clarified, “It doesn’t hurt me. It is… beautiful.”

Relief shuddered through Napoleon, and he managed a small smile. “I’m glad you think so.”

“It is not me. This is not how I look.” 

It was time to bite the proverbial bullet. “It’s how you look to me.”

Illya was silent. In all of this, his eyes had not left the portrait. He spoke to it, though he addressed Napoleon when he said, “Could you leave me with it for a moment?

With the distinct feeling of a bullet being dodged, Napoleon left without another word. As relieved as he felt immediately, there was also a disappointment in his confession essentially having gone ignored. An uneasy feeling rested in the pit of his stomach as he made his way back to his bedroom. He wouldn’t be going back. He lay on his side, scrunched semicircular into his bedsheets.

As he stared into the dying embers of his fireplace, he thought about how once fires start, they were easy enough to stamp out. The smoke leaching from the dying flames would dissipate into the air and in a few lungfuls, you would forget that there was ever even a spark. The trick was when fires spread. When they roved the horizontal plane, climbed up walls, and throats, and singed the skin worn like tree-bark— that’s when you lost control. That’s when the smoke began to fill up the cavity so that even if you managed to get the fire out, you would be left aching and desperate for breath. That’s when it was too late, injuries too deep to be forgotten. Napoleon fell asleep to a flash of orange, blue heat, dark smoke billowing through him, everywhere.

When the sun woke him next, Napoleon fought it back, a sheet against his eyes. But then, a gentle knock at his door proved impossible to ignore. He dragged himself up, smoothing down his clothes and his hair for some semblance of propriety. 

Opening the door, he met Illya’ s gaze, his tall form towered in the doorframe, he held one arm behind his back, the other rested in a very princely posture, bent at the elbow across his chest.

“Good morning,” rumbled Illya’s voice. “Did you sleep alright?”

“Yes. Fine,” Napoleon lied smoothly, plastering a grin on his face.

“Okay.” Illya didn’t sound like he believed him. “I came by because, you disappeared last night and I did not want you to worry that I didn’t like the painting.” Napoleon blinked rapidly, a short spike of panic burst in his heart just at its mention. But Illya’s gaze was distracted as his smile grew, “I really loved it.” 

“I’m glad,” Napoleon said, surprised at the hoarseness of his voice. “Good to know I’m not entirely out of practice.”

Illya nodded, looking back at Napoleon finally, “I also came to give you this.” The hand emerged from behind his back and Napoleon saw that it held a perfectly pressed tuxedo and a pair of dress-shoes. 

Napoleon took the garments, reverently running his hands over the layers of beautifully worked fabric. The shirt was a smooth cream silk with hand-stitched pearly buttons. The jacket was a sturdy, tight-knit wool. A smart pair of dress pants were folded underneath. On the top of the stack rested the two brand-new, gleaming dress-shoes. The craftsmanship had the delicate, curled quality of the expensive Italian work Napoleon rarely saw, but had always coveted. By some miracle they were just his size.

He had no words, gaping dumbly at Illya who laughed, good-natured and fond. “I said we would be dressing up for the occasion.”

“The dance. Of course.” How had he forgotten?

“I know that with the painting you have not had time to keep up the lessons.”

Napoleon felt the ache in his chest yawning open. “I know. I’m sorry…”

“But it is not a problem. Perhaps we will discuss this, my progress, whatever we are missing— over dinner.”

“I can do that.” Provided that there be enough wine.

“But we dance first. I will need some time to get the ballroom ready. Meet me there at five o’clock.”

“Ah… do you have a sundial by any chance? No working clocks in my room.”

That seemed to surprise Illya. But he simply undid the watch on his wrist and placed it on top of the pile of clothes in Napoleon’s arms. 

“Isn’t this watch the enchanted one?”

Napoleon saw Illya’s face shift from a wince to a careful, shaky composure. “No it is a normal watch. I took my father’s watch off. Put it away for now.” 

A tense silence shot up between them. Napoleon broke it, whispering, “Why?”

“I will tell you at dinner.” And with that, Illya turned on his heel and stalked away. 

Napoleon was left, unsure what to think, but tending towards catastrophe. He had his lunch sent up to his room, and ate alone, staring out the window at the barren castle grounds. Illya’s kindness was disarming. It was not that Napoleon questioned Illya’s capacity for it, but rather he worried about the proximity of kindness to pity, and the disastrous implications of that painting. His affection had been laid too bare, his heart was tender and open and sitting in Illya’s hands. And Illya was not known for his gentleness. 

Eventually, Napoleon wandered back into his studio, working out his nervous energy into his favourite exercise— a self portrait. As conceited as it sounded, it wasn’t that he loved the way he looked and needed to make permanent record of it. Rather, this was like a diary entry for him. A snapshot of how he was feeling, as represented through the way he saw himself. 

This time, with the help of a murky reflection from one of Illya’s cracked, antique mirrors, Napoleon came up with an image of an equally fractured man. Caught between the undeniable truth of his heart, and the second, even more certain reality of his situation. His too-large shirt, old, paint-stained, collar open and askew. His hair, an impossible black storm cloud. His eyes glassy and distracted. His lips and finger beds bitten red in his nervousness. The portrait was of a man in distress. Napoleon covered it as soon as he was done. Not waiting for the paint to dry, beyond caring if it smudged. Even more accurate would be if all those shapes and colours were to blend together to one formless chaos. 

But as he returned to his room, like the gods from so many mythologies, he took up the task of creating order out of his emotional chaos. His first task was to bathe— a proper, long soak in which he scrubbed every inch of his skin raw and clean. After he dried himself off, he carefully rubbed scented oils into his warm skin. Then, he dressed, feeling every luxurious thread of the clothes Illya had brought him, each angle and curve of his body caressed perfectly. He wondered, idly, how Illya could have gotten his measurements so exact, but quickly abandoned any thread of his imagination that brought Illya and his body in any close convergence. His final order of business was to tackle his hair. Finally able to summon pomade, he combed his curls back into place, until they were coiffed neat and orderly on his head. Only one rebel curl sprung forth from his careful work to rest against his forehead, and by the time he was done, he was too tired to fight it back. He was satisfied that he had dressed for the occasion.

The Italian loafers made a pleasant tapping sound as he walked down the steps. The watch on his wrist warned him it was only five minutes until he and Illya had agreed to meet. Acid danced in his stomach, and his brow pearled with sweat as he neared the ballroom doors. He could hear dulled orchestral music coming through the wooden frames, and a slash of light revealed by the split in the doors, slightly ajar.

With a steadying breath, he pushed open the doors and walked inside. 

The room was all golden splendour. Alight by the glittering chandelier in the centre of it all, the gorgeous marble floors, swirling with gold and onyx, reflected the flashing firelight. An invisible symphony filled the room with a lilting romantic song, and Illya stood at the centre of it all. A masterpiece in a royal blue, brocade jacket, Napoleon lost track of the time in which it took to reach him, blinking and finding himself mere inches in front of Illya.

Illya smiled down at him. “You do clean up nicely after all.”

His voice dissipated much of Napoleon’s nervousness. Shoulders visibly relaxing, he grinned. “I could say the same for you.”

A moment passed between them, just gazes held, and smiles going soft. Then Illya extended a hand. Ignoring a flicker of anxiety, Napoleon fit his own hand into Illya’s, leaned into the gentle grip. He brought his other hand up to Illya’s shoulder, felt Illya’s hand at his hip, where it leached heat through his clothes and set fire to his skin. He felt his cheeks heating up, and his gaze was stuck on his own hand, finger smoothing idly across the stitching of Illya’s jacket. Then the music swelled, and Illya began to lead them gently into a waltz. 

It was easy to follow Illya’s lead, swaying in time to the music. This whole time, they had barely spoken, but the music filled in the silence. The steady grip of Illya’s hand on Napoleon’s hip, Napoleon’s own anchor point of Illya’s shoulder, the place where their palms met in holy palmer’s kiss. Each point was suffused with tension, with a buzzing energy right below the surface of their skin, jumping to reach out to each other, dancing in time with the rest of their bodies. Looking at each other was another matter entirely. Each time their gazes met, shockwaves ran through Napoleon’s body, and he would have to look away again, training his eyes on a marble pillar or an ornate wall-decoration. The smile had fallen off his face after a while, but his lips were parted, expression trapped in one of gentle awe. Illya’s features were relaxed, the normal angry set to his brow was gone. He looked at peace. 

Illya caught Napoleon’s gaze once more, the music had slowed, and he smiled. “You have been painting today.” 

“How did you know?”

“You missed a spot. Behind your ear.” And with that Illya’s hand unclasped from Napoleon’s, they stopped, only inches apart. With his thumb he brushed the sensitive skin of Napoleon’s throat, resting for a moment on his rapid pulse, and finally came away with his thumb streaked blue. A shiver ran through Napoleon’s body, and he bit down on a gasp. He needed a drink.

“Should we— should we go for dinner now?” 

In response, Illya gripped Napoleon’s wrist loosely, and brought it up, pushing back his sleeve to read his watch. Napoleon stood, stunned at the slightest casual touch. They’d been dancing for an hour, and it had felt like only seconds had gone by. 

“Yes, we should,” said Illya, still holding onto his arm. It was getting to be a bit too much. Napoleon extricated his arm as politely as he could, Illya letting go as soon as he tugged it out of his grip. In that moment, Illya seemed to come back to himself. He cleared his throat, and walked side by side with Napoleon to the dining hall.

They took their seats at the table, lined with glowing candles. They could still hear the gentle music from the ballroom, like it had followed them. 

“I had a question for you,” Illya said, Napoleon took a swig of his wine before nodding. “It is about intimacy.”

Before Napoleon could let his heart pick up speed, he reminded himself, intimacy with _Gaby_ , who Illya was going to fall in love with. He let the familiar ache take over instead, it settled him.

Illya continued, “Loving someone means appreciating their interests, right?”

“Yes.” Illya had diligently read the books Napoleon had laid out for him. He was always reading _something_ these days.

“And you have to find ways to show that you appreciate them, yes?” 

“I would say so, yes.”

“How… how successful have I been?”

Napoleon thought for a moment, confused, his thoughts were beginning to be addled by the wine. “Well, I don’t think you’ve gotten to that part yet.”

Illya’s face fell. “I haven’t?”

Napoleon shook his head. “You’ve just read about all the antiques she likes. I think the next step would be to gather them, maybe polish a few, if it wouldn’t disrupt their historical value. I’m not really sure if you _can_ do that, I mean, they’re these big pieces of furniture…” Napoleon looked up to see Illya, his expression tight, concentrated on his plate. He realized he was probably annoying him with his nervous rambling, so he closed his mouth. A silence blossomed between them. But then Illya sighed, breaking it. 

“Loving someone means knowing about their life, and their past, and their family, no?”

“Yes, yes it does.” Napoleon began to feel queasy.

“Why haven’t you told me anything about Gaby’s?”

“Ah. Well. I suppose it’s because the point of talking about all that is that it shows you trust one another. So, Gaby’s story— it’s not for me to tell. These are things you should find out when you… when you talk to her.”

“She won’t trust me right away.”

“No, of course not, nor did I.”

“What changed?”

So much had changed. Napoleon didn’t know where to start. “I got to know you better. Grew to trust you. Found out that you have softer parts.”

“You know my vulnerabilities?”

“I— I suppose so, yes.”

“So why haven’t you attacked? It’s what I would do, if I were in your position. Why haven’t you used this… all that you have learned…to your advantage? You know my temper, and I’ve kept you _trapped_ here. Why not attack me and flee?”

“I can’t answer that.” Napoleon’s voice was hoarse. He wanted to scream. His chest ached so badly, it felt like someone was holding an iron brand against his heart.

“There is something about me then,” Illya answered his own question. “Some definite, redeemable quality. You cannot name it but it is there.”

The wine was starting to make everything feel numb, but a prickle of irritation broke through. “I can name it,” he slurred, “It’s you.”

Illya looked at him, concerned. “What do you mean?”

“You are a good person. I stayed here because you convinced me that helping you would be worth it. That you deserve happiness and what happened to you— it happened for a reason. But you’ve learned. Not from me, but, from your own hardship. It’s changed you… for the better.”

There was a long silence. This time it was unbearable. The music had stopped at some uncertain point, and at once Napoleon realized it was raining outside. The rapid pattering of water against the window-panes was broken up by the occasional, baritone thunder. Flashes of lightning disrupted the warm glow of the dining hall, reminders of the reality outside.

Napoleon tipped the carafe of wine into his glass again, some spilled against the edge of the glass where he missed, bleeding red splotches into the tablecloth below. Silence kept spreading, slowly, like the stain. 

Finally, Illya spoke, “I think… I am ready.” 

“Ready for what?” 

“For love. I think your teachings… we are done. It has worked.” 

_We are done_. It was a knife through his gut. When Napoleon managed to answer, his voice was faint to his own ears, “So you want me to get Gaby?”

Illya blinked at him. “Yes,” he said, after an agonizing silence. “As you say. I want Gaby.”

Unable to speak, Napoleon just breathed out, one long steadying exhale. It suffused the air around them with a horrible stillness, and though Napoleon knew this moment was coming, it was still a terrible blow. All at once, the need to be as far away from Illya as possible became so urgent it made him jittery. He stood up, thighs knocking into the table in front of him, rattling the cutlery, and making the candles flicker. He and Illya both, at once, were transfixed on the flames, watching that they didn’t fall, but they settled. 

Napoleon cast a quick look into the inky night, the rain had stopped, but a glowing cloud covered the moon, and the shadows of the dripping forest wavered like ghosts. 

His decision was made. “I’ll go now. No time to waste.” 

“Now?” Illya’s eyes were wide, he stood from his seat as well, managing a bit more grace than Napoleon had.

“No time like the present,” Napoleon said, cringing at his own cliche, but it was as useless as he felt. 

Without another word, feeling barely present in his body, he found his way to his room. Blindly casting around for his overcoat, he shrugged it on, and made his way to the door. 

Illya waited for him there, his chest heaving, his expression the picture of indignant anger. The numbness inside Napoleon veered sharply to irritation at the sight of it. 

“Are you going to let me leave? Or was I never anything but a prisoner here?” 

Illya’s eyes flashed with hurt, and at once, the snideness of his words turned sour in Napoleon’s mouth. But then Illya snarled, a sound that promise of violence. Napoleon flinched. Annoyed at his own weakness, he bowed his head, refusing to see the satisfaction on Illya’s face now that he was cowering. So he only heard the tremor in Illya’s voice, when he said, “Your sentence is up.” And he walked past Napoleon without another word, back into the castle’s depths. 

“I’ll see myself out then.” Napoleon said, hollow and humourless, to no one. 


	6. when the autumn moon is bright

Having had the foresight to bring a torch, its dim light led him to the gate, where the chains still strangled the iron. But the rusted bars still came loose so he could squeeze his way through the exit. 

This luck couldn’t last. As soon as he was deep in the forest, a crackling and hissing soundscape sending spikes of dread through his heart, the skies decided to open up again. At once, the fire sputtered out, and the rain began to soak him through. Cold, miserable, he kept trudging towards town. 

Napoleon wasn’t sure at all if he was going in the right direction. He was barely thinking about his surroundings, especially now when he could see little more than the dark outlines of trees. He didn’t particularly have an innate sense of direction either, but he figured right now he had very little to lose.

He was in love with Illya. 

It was horribly, irreparably the case. It was also true that the had spent all this time falling for him, while he was helping him learn to woo someone else. Someone who he also cared for, who he refused to begrudge or punish for his indiscretion— his broken heart was no one’s fault but his own. 

And he was grateful for the rain, how it slackened the careful coif of his hair until it hung limply in his eyes; how it soaked through the wool of his overcoat, his jacket, and washed through the fine silk of his shirt to coat his skin in icy water. The wind pelted the raindrops at his face, and chapped his skin, and stung his eyes. His fine Italian shoes made a squelching sound as he trudged through the mud, and they filled with rain water and dead leaves. The idiotic fantasy of these clothes, of everything about that castle, was all soon waterlogged and ruined.

Although he had been wandering aimlessly, he had ventured more or less in a straight line, and finally the distant lights of the village came into view. He shuddered, in a combination of relief and as a result of the chill that he felt all the way in his bones. 

When he broke through the trees and neared the village, it was deserted, everyone taking shelter from the rain. He paused by the fountain, for a moment hypnotized by the sight of the raindrops splashing into its large basin. When he caught sight of his reflection, illuminated by a stray beam of moonlight, he was shocked at how truly wretched he looked. Hair wet and stringy and plastered across a face that was all pale, gaunt miserable angles. Clothes muddied and torn. He looked like a ghost. It propelled him to his mission once again. 

He made a beeline for the Tellers’ tavern, knowing Gaby would be there, knowing that this was what he had to do. Pushing the door open, he entered, trailing water into the inn. He was embraced immediately by the dryness and the warmth, and he sighed, relieved at the feeling, and closed his eyes. 

Suddenly, someone was shaking him. Distantly, he heard a voice asking him if he was alright. He opened his eyes to find himself slumped against a wall. He looked up, blinking away the bleariness in his vision. Gaby.

“Napoleon! Thank God. We thought… we all thought…” Gaby couldn’t finish her sentence, her eyes welling up with tears. 

“The castle,” he managed, but it wasn’t what he needed to say. He tried again, but Gaby interrupted him.

“You can barely talk! Come, get out of those wet clothes, dry off, and get into bed. We can talk in the morning.”

“No, Gaby, this is important.” 

“Not more important than making sure you don’t catch your death.” 

Her tone was stern now, her gaze steely, her grip on his forearms firm, and Napoleon didn’t have it in him to argue any more. He slumped into her embrace, carrying himself as well as he could as she helped him out of his clothes, into dry ones, and tucked him into bed, the fire crackling beside him.

When he woke up, for a moment he still believed he was in the castle. But the world around him was different, familiar yet strange. The bed was soft, and there was a sleeping body beside him, he felt the slow rise and fall of their breath. Turning his head, he found Gaby, her little face buried into the pillow next to him, her bangs dashed messily across her face. He felt a sudden rush of affection for her. He felt safe with her there, finally at home. Fondly, he reached over and brushed her hair back, and the action woke her up, her eyes fluttering open.

“Hey,” she said, sitting up and stretching. “How are you feeling?”

That was a loaded question. Napoleon opted to answer physically. “My head is killing me.” His voice came out in an awful croak, and he covered his mouth and turned away, badly tamping down on a cough.

Gaby sighed, shaking her head and stepping out of the bed. She was still in her clothes from the night before, she smoothed down the rumples. Napoleon noted that he was in a pair of comfortable linen pyjamas, likely courtesy of Gaby’s father.

“That’s what happens when you traipse around in the rain like that. I’ll get some soup going and then I’m going to come back and you are going to tell me _everything_.” Her directive stated, Gabymarched out of his room and Napoleon heard her pattering footsteps going down the stairs. 

He lay back heavily against the pillows. Gaby didn’t know it, but this was asking a lot. He wasn’t even sure what he would say, how he would go about saying it. 

She’d think he was lying. That he was delusional from his fever. How could the truth be most awful parody of itself? _Hey Gabs, you remember that monster that captured us and put us in a dungeon and was generally terrifying? Yeah, he’s actually kind of a beautiful, tortured soul and I need you to go fall in love with him and break the curse that’s making him look like a monster. Oh. And I’m also in love with him._

When Gaby got back, that’s exactly what he said. Except for the part about him being in love with Illya. That was something he was still getting used to admitting to himself. 

All things considered, Gaby took the news well. “So he talks?”

“Yes, and he’s not a half-bad conversationalist.” 

“And you spent all this time— what, _taming_ him?”

“I was helping him with… human things. The man hadn’t socialized with anyone for years. He needed a little help. And he has a bit of a temper, but it just means he’s passionate.”

Gaby looked at him, a single eyebrow raised, “Are you sure _you_ don’t need to go fall in love with him?” 

“No.” Too loud, too quick. He tried to laugh it off. “Don’t be ridiculous. He wants you— not to own. Just a chance to get to know you.” 

“You think I should go?”

“Wouldn’t hurt.” It would, but he’d get over it soon enough.

There was a long silence, punctuated only by a few of Napoleon’s coughs. His head felt like it was stuffed with sawdust. Gaby picked at a thread on the bedsheet, always fiddling with something when she was thinking.

“You know, I tried to go back and get you.” 

“You did?” Napoleon’s heart warmed a little at the thought.

“I tried.” Gaby’s voice broke a little, and she blinked rapidly a few times. Napoleon realized she was holding back tears. He reached a hand over and covered hers, she turned it over so her palm faced his, twined their fingers together and held on, firm and comforting. “I asked everyone. I told them… I told them about what we’d seen. About what… I thought lived in the castle. No one believed me. Everyone thought you were just… skipping over to the next town. Never mind that all your belongings were still here. And then— when you came back last night, and you looked hurt, and Leduc saw you and I told him— I was panicked. I’m sorry. I didn’t know about Illya. I think I messed up.”

Napoleon felt his grip go slack in Gaby’s hands with her every word. His muscles tensed, and he could feel his pace picking up as well. He sat up, tried to even out his breathing. “Gaby… what are they going to do?”

“I don’t know. I think they believe me now, though.”

“But you’re _wrong_ , Gaby. He’s not like that monster we saw. What are they going to do?” 

As he got louder, Gaby shrank back. Pulling her hand from his grip she stood up and began to pace. She threw her hands up. “You should talk to Leduc—”

“Oh, right, because he’s my biggest fan.”

“He was really alarmed when he saw you last night. He’s going to talk to the town council— in a few days. I don’t know what they’re going to do but, we have until then to warn Illya.”

“You have to go to the castle, now.”

“What? By myself?”

“He doesn’t want to see me,” said Napoleon, and hearing the words out loud, he leaned back against the pillow again, his chest suddenly heavy.

“Napoleon, are you sure you don’t feel—”

Napoleon shook his head rapidly, holding his hand up to make her stop, and she did mid-sentence, and stared at him in silent frustration.

“Gaby, what I feel in this situation isn’t relevant. He needs our help, and all he asked is for a chance with you. Whatever Leduc is planning, it’s not your fault, if anything it’s mine. And we have to figure out a way to make this right.” He cut himself off with a sneeze, turning away from Gaby burying his face in his elbow. When he looked back her expression had softened a little, the furrow disappearing from her brow. But it was worse now. She looked _concerned_.

“I’ve never seen you like this.”

“I’m okay. Illya might not be. Please, we have to do something.”

Then, all at once, a wave of fever-heat made him feel woozy. Unsatisfied that he had made his point, but feeling too drained to fight, black edged into his vision, and he passed out.

When he woke up again, his head was still fuzzy, his airways congested, and his breath slow. There was steady afternoon light filtering through his window. Shakily, he sat up against his pillows. Feeling the weight of a watch still on his wrist, he brought it up and checked the time. It was noon, he had only been out for a few hours. Rosemary and sage wafted into his room, announcing Gaby’s entrance with a hot bowl of soup. She placed the tray on his lap, and he smiled at her gratefully. Then she took a seat on a stool next to his bed.

“I thought about what you said.” 

A grateful slurp of his soup, the hot trickle run down his throat, relieved some of the pressure that had built up there. He managed one good, easy breath and turned to Gaby, waiting for her to continue.

“My priority is that you get better.”

“Gaby!” He started to argue but Gaby held up a silencing hand this time.

“All I have to go on about Illya is your word. I’m sorry but it’s not enough for me to risk going back there by myself— I don’t know what I’m getting into. The only option I see is that you get better, you talk to Leduc and the town council— I got them to push back their meeting. And then we figure out what to do together.” 

Napoleon stared at her for a minute, considering her words. There was still a part of him that was screaming at him to fight. But now that his head was clearing, it was a little easier to see Gaby’s reasoning. He sighed. He could compromise. It wasn’t ideal— but he and Gaby had the same eventual goal. Illya’s safety. 

He resigned himself to finishing his soup and resting for the remainder of the day. In the evening, Gaby gave him some potion from the local doctors to help with his cough and it sent him careening once again into a deep sleep for the rest of the night. All of his anxieties were suppressed by his weakness, and he found himself regretting his actions, why did he have to leave like _that_? 

Finally, the day came that his fever broke and he was strong enough to stand, to walk. He followed Gaby and her father to the town hall, where Leduc was holding his meeting.

“Are you sure you’re feeling up for this?” Gaby asked him, for the millionth time.

“Yes. I’ll be okay.”

“He’s bounced back, Gaby, don’t worry. He can fight this.” The comforting words came from Dr. Teller, Gaby’s father. Though he was weak himself, he insisted on taking his cane and accompanying the two of them to the meeting. Napoleon was grateful, he was well-liked and would have some sway among the villagers. He had little confidence in his own charm in this moment, his voice was still a little raspy from his illness, and when he looked in the mirror, he hadn’t recognized the pale, sallow face that had looked back at him. 

When they walked in, they were the last few in town to do so, and found all the seats taken. Everyone stared avidly at Leduc, whose lanky form took up the podium. 

“Ah, I see the defendants have decided to join us.” 

A member of the village council, seated semi-circularly with her colleagues, piped up at this, “Mr. Leduc, may I remind you, this is not a court of law.”

“Yes, honourable councillor, your point is well taken. All I meant by my turn of phrase is that we have finally been blessed by the presence of those who wish to defend the monster that we have long known lives in that damned castle, and his very own kidnapping victim to boot.” 

"I wouldn’t call myself a victim of anything but your overextended prose, Leduc.” Napoleon surprised himself at the venom in his voice, and that he had been loud enough to silence the din of conversation in the room. Now Leduc stared at him with a pointed menace in his gaze.

“Is that so? So Miss Teller was lying when she told us of your month long capture?”

“I was there willingly. The man that lives there, he isn’t dangerous. I was his guest.”

“Is that so? So then why did Miss Teller come back and tell every soul that would listen that a monster had caught you? That this “man” you speak of was some seven foot tall beast?”

Gaby interjected, “I am here, you know, and I can speak for myself.” 

Leduc gave her a patronizing pout, “Please, go ahead, tell us how you changed your mind on an issue that was so urgent to you just last night, that you were prepared to pull us all out of our beds at midnight to deal with it!”

“I was mistaken.” Gaby’s voice wavered, her nervousness was new to Napoleon. “It was a very confused night, and what I may or may not have seen when it was dark and I was panicked is not a testimony that can be compared with Napoleon’s. He spent a great deal of time there, getting to know the occupant of the castle, he has assured me that it is not a danger to us. In fact… I will be accompanying him back there.”

A collective intake of air rushed through the room, and the people broke out immediately into concerned chattering. Eventually another one of the councillors behind Leduc had to stand up and wave his hands in the air. “Enough! Quiet down everyone!”

Leduc took the moment the crowd silenced to begin shouting. “Do you see what’s happened to them? No one comes back the same. They come back with dangerous ideas in their heads. Whatever that thing is that lives in there has clearly hypnotized Mr. Solo and now he has come back for Miss Teller!” With his every inflammatory sentence a murmur rose through the crowd. Napoleon opened his mouth to retort, but Leduc was too fast, too loud, he wouldn’t be stopped. “Who knows what kind of Satanic rituals go on there! We have seen time and time again that no one comes back the same! Or they do not come back at all! How many of our youth will this creature seduce? How many will he take until he is satisfied?”

Now the crowd was yelling their agreement with him. A voice rose from the crowd, “We should storm the castle, end it once and for all!”

Another one, shrieked, “There’s one of _it,_ and a two dozen of us!”

And another, the final rallying cry, “Let’s go! Now!”

Raucous noise overtook the town hall. The councillors looked panicked, powerless to stop it. And all the while a satisfied smirk rested on Leduc’s face. Napoleon had the distinct feeling of the ground slipping away from him. His hand shot out to the wall behind him and he leaned against it for stability. 

So that was it. They hadn’t been able to stop it. The villagers had decided to march on the castle. And Illya didn’t know. All around him, the humming crowd filtered out of the town hall, Leduc leading the charge. Everything sounded like Napoleon was hearing it from underwater. The sound of his own heart beating, his gasping breath, was all he could concentrate on.

Gaby shook his shoulders, then, jolting him awake to the fact that now he and the Tellers were the only ones left in the hall. And they had to think. Fast. 

“Let’s tail the crowd,” Gaby said, and turned to her father, “Will you be okay to get back home?”

For a moment, he looked like he would put up a fight, but then thought better of it. He nodded and then looked at Gaby, a brief but meaningful glance, “Be safe. Not like last time.”

Gaby nodded, and hugged him, “Not like last time. Promise.”

She turned back to Napoleon. He had watched this whole exchange, the heartwarming bond between father and daughter, and could still only feel an all-consuming sense of despair. He felt as if his illness had broken something in his mind, irreparably. He wasn’t sure how well he would be to go either. If he paled, or wavered, Gaby noticed.

“You want to do this, right?” she asked him. His heart lurched. 

“I don’t have a choice."

Emerging from the town hall, they saw the crowd milling, ready to go. Pitchforks, iron brands, and torches at the ready, they moved in a glimmering mass. Gaby and Napoleon trailed after them, blending into the rear of the crowd. 

Time moved differently in the last remnants of Napoleon's fever, they reached the iron gates sooner than Napoleon had ever reached them. Even though the sludgy ground, still drying from the week’s rain, slowed their footsteps. At once the front of the pack began to pull at the chains, but their rust was deceptive. They held fast, and frustrated murmurs began to travel down the pack.

Then a voice, clear in the silence, “There’s a gap between these two grates!” 

“Fuck,” Gaby muttered under her breath. The crowd began to shift then as people filed in one by one through the narrow space. The wind was picking up, cold and harsh against Napoleon’s skin. Distantly, he heard a wolf howl. 

And then it hit him. “There’s another way,” he whispered to Gaby. And then, without another word he started down the perimeter of the iron fence. He heard Gaby’s rustling footsteps close behind him as they hurried to beat the crowd’s entry. Time was not on their side, however, as the castle was big, the fence seemingly endless. Soon, Napoleon was so winded each breath blazed in his chest, and drops of sweat ran down his forehead, before cooling icily in the crook of his neck. He had recuperated, but it seemed just barely.

Finally, they reached the gate. “I’m not even going to ask how you know about this,” said Gaby, the fact that she was impressed was obvious in her tone and it made Napoleon smile, despite everything. 

“It’s a long story,” Napoleon said, and then pushed the door. It gave way immediately. At last, something had gone right. Stalking through it, with Gaby close behind, he found the back entrance of the castle once again, and soon he and Gaby were running down a dark hallway, just like they had when this had all started.

As they ran they could hear the clamour from inside the castle, slowly growing louder, more distinct. The yelling of the crowd and distant crashing became the specific words _there it is, get it, it’s hideous._ It made Napoleon sick, made him run faster, until he could hear the crashes, the specific splintering of wood. 

When they reached the entrance to the foyer, Napoleon saw that the worst had come true. It happened before his eyes as if time slowed down. Though he didn’t see the hand that threw it, it was enough to see the arc of the blade. It glinted, reflecting the firelight, and soaring through the air. Napoleon tracked its smooth trajectory until it embedded itself, with an awful wet thud into Illya’s shoulder. Though the sound of it was drowned out in the commotion, Napoleon could feel the visceral force of the scream wrenched out of him as he saw Illya’s regal form collapse from the pain. His breath was a stuttered gasp as he saw Illya stand up again, and stumble back up the stairs and into the darkest wing of his palace. 

The crowd looked like it was going to rush up the stairs but before they could, Gaby was there. Napoleon hadn’t even noticed her run out, but she had and she stood with her arms held out towards the crowd, shouting at them. “Enough! It’s over! You got what you wanted!” Surprisingly, her voice quieted them down, and many of them in this moment of rage clearing, looked around the foreboding darkness of the palace, their fear beginning to settle into them again.

“Just go back! You did what you came here to do!”

“Without collecting the riches here first, fat chance!”

“Quick, there might be gold in those rooms, down the hallway!”

“There’s nothing here!” Gaby screamed, though she knew it was untrue. Napoleon held his breath as he waited for her to continue. “I was here with Napoleon. It’s all gone, the royal family took it all when they left.” Not the paintings. Not the antiques. Not their son. They left plenty of valuables behind. But Napoleon wasn’t about to correct Gaby. He locked eyes with her for a moment, then, a question in his eyes, and the look with which Gaby answered instantly revealed her plan.Napoleon knew his role. 

Gaby continued to cajole the crowd, distracting them as Napoleon snuck out, towards the entrance of the left-most hallway. There he found the torches in the walls, and pulled them out one by one, ducking quickly into one of the rooms, he dropped the torches, about a half dozen wooden logs, with as great a clatter as he could onto the floor. Unsatisfied with the sound, he looked around the room and found a flimsy wooden chair, taking it he smashed it across the wall. He hid, and then, he heard the gasps and murmurs. 

“The ghosts!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, there are no ghosts!” 

“We’ve angered them by killing their demon king! Now they’re throwing things.”

“That could have been anything.”

Napoleon realized they were right. This wasn’t convincing enough. Something would have to fly in front of their faces for real. Something they couldn’t explain. And all at once it hit him like it should have immediately.

Sneaking out past the hallway, back into the foyer, he hid behind a marble column. Then, thinking of the candelabras, the buffets, and even the chairs and tables that must have been in those rooms they had explored so long ago in the rightmost hallway, he held out his hand and he summoned them.

At once, with a foreboding rumble, they began to come. First a candelabra streaked through the air, the shrill clang of metal against metal reverberated through the room as it hit a raised pitchfork, bouncing back it smacked someone squarely in the face before falling to the ground. At once, everyone fell into stunned silence, staring at the offending item, disbelief choking the air.

Then, with a small clatter, the candelabra began to move again, making its clumsy way back to Napoleon, still out of sight. This is when the panic began. Small murmurs, shouts of concern.

“What _was_ that.”

“Someone probably just threw it.” 

“But then how did it start moving _again?_ ” 

Gaby chimed in with the answer, though she looked a little pale herself. Napoleon realized he had never quite explained this bit to her. To her credit, she was a good sport. “It’s ghosts! Like I said!”

And that’s when the buffet flew in, caryatids leading the charge. Its bulk was unmistakable as it sailed toward the crowd. The first warning cry went out when someone saw it and immediately, the crowd scattered. Gaby ran alongside them, as they dodged the dresser, and watched in horror as it crashed against the leftmost wall of the foyer, splintering into thousands of pieces. That was the final straw. The doors opened and let a flood of moonlight into the foyer, illuminating the horror-struck faces of the fleeing villagers. 

Napoleon watched them leave from his vantage point behind the pillar. The mob of people he’d considered friends, some he’d even considered a little more. How quickly they’d turned violent when faced with the unfamiliar. How resistant they had been to giving the unfamiliar a fighting chance. The blacksmith and his apprentice brought up the rear of the crowd, with their huge hammers from the smithy swinging in their arms as they ran, and Michel and Leduc followed them. Napoleon had thought once that he had known these men, desired some of them, and in his most foolish dreams had even hoped for more. He realized now he hadn’t known them at all. He hadn’t even really known himself.

Gaby closed the door behind the crowd with a heavy thud. Finally, Napoleon emerged and headed straight for the stairs. 

“Are you going to tell me what the hell that was?” Gaby called after him, she followed close behind. 

Napoleon turned back to her, saying, “I wish I could, but I don’t know!”

Gaby’s brow furrowed, but she followed Napoleon anyway into the dark hallway. She stopped for a torch but Napoleon kept going, he knew with absolute certainty where Illya had gone. Reaching the end of the hall, he pushed open the door to the room that once was his. 

Illya was there. Napoleon’s heart stopped, seeing him. He was curled up by the fireplace, his hand clutching on to the wound on his shoulder which was steadily leaching blood, spreading a dark stain down the back and arm of his jacket. Napoleon scrambled for one of his old shirts in his dresser to staunch the blood and approached Illya quickly, but cautiously. 

The situation was worse than he’d thought. Illya breathed heavily, his eyes half-closed, his grip on his own wound was getting weaker. So at once, Napoleon wrapped the wound with his shirt, applying a good amount of pressure. Enough that it drew Illya’s attention, which was bleary and half-present at best, he opened his mouth to speak, managed a slurred approximation of, “Who’s there?” 

“Illya, it’s me. I brought Gaby.”

“Gaby?” His head perked up. 

Napoleon nodded, even though his heart squeezed painfully. 

“She’s here, we’re going to get you back.”

“Won’t work.”

Napoleon furrowed his brow then, “Don’t be silly, of course it will.”

Illya heaved a great sigh, said, “No time,” and closed his eyes, becoming distressingly still. 

For one, miserable, gutting moment, Napoleon thought he was dead. Panic froze his body. It took Gaby’s voice to shake him out, as he realized with a dull start that she was there, and she asked him, “Did you check his pulse?”

Shaking, Napoleon’s hands reached for Illya’s wrist, turning it over, seeking out the pulse-point there. His fingers brushed against the leather strap of Illya’s watch. He had put it back on. He stuck his fingers underneath, and though it was weak, he found it, Illya’s pulse was faint but present. Deflating with relief, he turned Illya’s arm back, and his eyes caught on the watch. The minute hand was almost at twelve. One more turn of the second hand would do it. Napoleon’s mind flashed back to their conversation. Illya had only a few hours left.

How was this possible? He said he’d had months. Napoleon had only been there for about a month. It should have given Illya at least three more. Had he miscalculated? He had known. He’d said, “No time.” Had he been lying? Why? The questions plagued Napoleon, but with a heavy certainty he knew that it didn’t matter now, all that mattered was this.

“Gaby, I need you to kiss Illya.”

“What!?” 

Napoleon took a breath, reminding himself to be patient, that her reaction was entirely justified. 

“He doesn’t have any time left. He needs to kiss his true love before the clock strikes midnight— if he doesn’t, he’s going to stay like this forever.”

“Napoleon, I’ve never even spoken to him.”

“But he thinks you’re his true love. It must be… I don’t know, fated or something.”

“How would he know that, he doesn’t even know me!”

“I told him about you! I was trying to help him get to know you!”

“Napoleon,” Gaby’s voice was firm, her look pointed, “I don’t think you did what you came here to do.”

By now tears of frustration were pooling in Napoleon’s eyes. His throat burned. He blinked hard, but it didn’t help. He was out of options. “Please. It can’t hurt to try.”

Gaby’s expression softened immediately, but she sighed, still shaking her head. But it wasn’t to refuse, more so to express her disbelief. Her approach was wary, skirting a wide perimeter. She kneeled in front of him slowly, and brought her hand up to his face. Napoleon felt his heart stinging at the clinical way she touched him, but he kept his expression as neutral as he could, trying to be encouraging. Another stab to his chest came as he watched the fear in Gaby’s look turn slightly to disgust. It wasn’t anything obvious, just that slight curl of the lip, that Illya must have seen in everyone’s expression, even those of his own family. The thought made Napoleon’s heart break, for all the times Illya’s would have. He had to avert his gaze when Gaby finally pressed her lips to Illya’s. 

“Nothing’s happening,” she said, and Napoleon looked back at her. He felt a thousand things at once. The most damning was relief, the knowledge that Gaby wasn’t Illya’s true love. It didn’t mean that it was Napoleon, but for now it resolved the impossible task of hurting Gaby by revealing his feelings. But beyond that shameful relief, a new urgency took hold. If they couldn't change him, they still had to save him as he was. A glance at the shirt that was tied around Illya’s wound revealed it to be all but red. 

When he rushed over to the dresser to grab another shirt, he found it empty. Then Gaby rose, “I’ll go find another one, and I’ll see he has any ointments or disinfectants.” 

“He had this one that was really good for when a wolf bit me.” 

“A _what_ bit you?”

Napoleon smiled, “Long story.” 

Gaby rolled her eyes and walked out of the room. Napoleon’s smile slipped off his face as soon as she was gone. 

Remembering that night set a new fire alight in Napoleon, poking at the awful undying ember of his desire, setting loose the suffocating smoke of his love. He turned back to Illya, helplessly drawn, refusing to believe he’d missed his chance. A foolish hope still lived in him, and banged on every wall, insisting that he at least _try_. So, Napoleon kneeled in front of him like Gaby had. Looking at him lying there, prone and vulnerable, he could see nothing of the beast the others saw. There was no threat here, no monster. Flashes of that portrait of him danced before Napoleon’s eyes, young and regal and beautiful, and again the flashes of his new form, stricken at the memory of his former self, regretful and mournful and changed. When Napoleon touched his trembling hand to Illya’s cheek it was with reverence, tilting it up towards him. And when Napoleon pressed his lips to Illya’s, a chaste, innocent kiss, he was shot through with a bliss that shattered him entirely, a feeling from which he knew he would never recover. It overwhelmed him, so that he barely opened his eyes in time to witness a miracle.

Illya was glowing. A bright, white light was shining from beneath his skin, slowly getting brighter until it was blinding. His eyes stinging, Napoleon stumbled away and clambered back onto his feet, he backed away, ducking behind the armoire as the light grew brighter and brighter, illuminating the room as if it had suddenly become daytime. And just as quickly, the light stopped, and Gaby wandered back in. 

“I couldn’t find that ointment but I found— oh.” She didn’t see Napoleon, she had meandered past the armoire into the room. Her gaze was shocked, trained towards the fireplace. Napoleon watched her carefully. 

“Gaby.” Illya’s voice. Napoleon felt his knees go weak. 

“You must be this Illya I keep hearing about, then.” 

“Napoleon sent you. It worked.” Hearing his name come from Illya’s mouth was like a punch to the gut. Still he waited, struck silent, not daring to look.

“I kissed you but nothing happened.”

“How can it be? I'm no longer a beast.” Napoleon stifled a gasp against his hand. 

Gaby was quiet for a long moment, “I guess it was delayed.” 

“Yes. Perhaps.”

Napoleon watched, his eyes wide and stinging, as Gaby ventured closer. He leaned his head beyond the armoire the slightest bit, hazarding a glance at them. His heart sank, watching them backlit from the fireplace, it was clear to anyone, they were perfect. They only had eyes for each other. She is who he wanted. Napoleon no longer fit. Illya was beautiful, just like the portrait, only older. All that remained of the spun gold beast was the hair, still glinting like precious metal. He looked at Gaby like she was a marvel. She looked back at him a little more skeptically, but not repulsed, like she had been earlier. Instead Napoleon recognized a glint in her eyes, a feeling that he knew all too well, curiosity. 

“I… I do not know how to thank you,” Illya said nervously, looking at his hands. The most gorgeous pink blush dusted his cheeks, like tulips blooming in spring. Then he looked at Gaby and stepped closer towards her. Napoleon heard her shocked little intake of breath, imagined the heady pleasure of being so close to Illya. He knew what was coming, and the ache of it radiated through his whole body. He watched as Illya pressed a kiss to Gaby’s lips. 

Finding he could watch no longer, he made his silent exit from the room. Down the stairs. Out the door. He ran through the woods as fast as he could. His heart in tatters. Never looking back.


	7. if you could only see the beast you’ve made of me

It had been a quiet few weeks living with Gaby in the castle. He didn’t regret asking her. After so many years, it was difficult to go back to being alone. The castle felt too big, too empty. Still, the circumstances of life did not allow that he and Gaby were alone either. In these past few weeks, Illya had also been able to hire actual staff in his palace, finding the invisible servants disappeared with the rest of the enchantment in the palace. At Gaby’s behest to make the place more livable, the curtains were always drawn wide open to let the sunlight through, and place into stark relief the garish wallpaper. He would have to get around to fixing that too, eventually. 

Though there was some friction with meeting new people, and getting to know them, and teaching them all what he liked to eat, it was better than what it had been. He found it miraculously easy to overcome his introverted tendencies. He supposed it had been  Napoleon who had taught him to appreciate company. Gaby was not like Napoleon at all. For one thing, though the halls were no longer empty, they were still quiet. Gaby spent very little time with Illya. She never really asked him questions, opting to figure things out for herself. She seemed satisfied after being shown the library and spent most of her time there. He had set up another bedroom for her, nearer to his own than Napoleon’s had been. 

They saw each other at mealtimes and made pleasant, though shallow, conversation. She appreciated all he had learned about her interests, just as Napoleon had said she would. They would talk for ages about furniture and antique candleholders. Illya had not known someone could care so much about these things, but he found it endearing. As he'd imagined, she was beautiful and kind and smart. Though she hadn't warmed up to him quite yet, Illya was surprised how quickly he was growing fond of her. It was a slightly tepid feeling still, driven more by a general sense of interest than anything else, but he was sure that it would grow into something more. 

It wasn’t like how he felt about Napoleon where there was that first intense, passionate dislike, that had transformed in quick, and meaningful moments into an equally fierce affection. It had perhaps been foolish for him to think Napoleon could have returned those feelings. Naive to test if the kindness he showed Illya could have been love, something he knew clearly nothing about, no matter what Napoleon taught him. Still, the only thing he could find himself regretting was how it had ended— so suddenly, and so badly. 

Illya could only categorize their last interaction as a rejection, plain and simple. He had tried to make his feelings known. He had set up the painting studio and posed for the portrait and he imagined he had seen love in its creation. But it was probably just a testament to Napoleon’s talent. He had taken it to be more than it was, tried silently to show Napoleon how he felt through the dance, through his clumsy, unsure words, and eventually Napoleon’s discomfort grew stronger than any gratitude or friendship he felt towards Illya, and it had compelled him to leave. He had convinced himself of this, spending long nights awake only thinking of their last few hours together. The sweetness of their dance, in sharp contrast with the way their conversation soured, every stilted word they’d exchanged, the sound of the silence between them. He just wished they could have stayed friends. 

At least Napoleon had kept his promise. Illya was sure he would grow to love Gaby just like he had with Napoleon. It was just a matter of time. If it didn’t happen over this silent dinner, it would be another. 

The scratch of fork tines made the only sound in the room. Gaby had taken to sitting at the opposite end of the table, rather than the place at his side that Napoleon had chosen. It had been awkward, really, as the place had been set habitually at his side, when Gaby took the other seat. He’d shuffled over and carried her plate and silverware and napkins over to her, having to take a second trip for the glasses.

Dinners always reminded him of how Gaby kept her distance. After that first kiss, that night that she had saved him— perhaps technically their second kiss, they hadn’t touched each other. The kiss itself had been nice, but hadn't felt very significant. He supposed that would change in time as well. All he could really do is bide his time. 

He made it a fortnight in this silence before it began to worry him, and made him think of stagnation. There was no progress in either Gaby’s outward affection for him, nor for his own feelings. Sitting at opposite sides of the table, at the dinner which marked the end of their second week together, he decided something needed to change.

He cleared his throat, drawing Gaby's gaze. She set her fork down and tilted her head slightly, inviting him to speak. 

Illya felt his cheeks heat up slightly, there was no real delicate way to do this. “Gaby, you know, I have enjoyed getting to know you these past few weeks.” 

“So have I," she said, with a slight smile. 

“I hope I have been able to show you that there is… some hope for me still.”

“What do you mean?”

“Living as a monster for so many years, that it has not robbed me of my humanity.”

“Oh, no, not at all.”

“Good.”

“Yes.”

Another stifling silence. Illya took a swig of his wine and set it down a little too hard. With difficulty, he raised his eyes to Gaby. 

“Gaby, I was wondering if you would marry me.” 

Gaby’s eyes grew wide. She looked like that was the last thing she expected him to say. “Oh… Illya, I don’t know…” she started. 

“I know… I know it is sudden but I want us to have a chance together. It is not proper that two unmarried people live together like this for too long.”

“I’ve never really put much stock into what other people think is proper.” 

“I know, Gaby, and it is one of the things I admire about you. I hope that you know that I would be happy that you be yourself and pursue your own interests in this marriage. I don’t want to impose any roles on you. But I also want to show you that I am devoted to this. To us. For the long term.”

Gaby furrowed her brow, which made Illya think that she was considering it. “Am I really your best option?”

Napoleon’s face flashed before his eyes, and he ignored it. Illya nodded, “You are my true love.”

“Am I? Does it really feel that way?” And now Illya felt caught out. If he was honest, no, it didn’t. 

“It will.”

“And that’s good enough for you?”

The question sat uneasily with Illya, triggering something queasy in his stomach that felt terribly similar to guilt. How certain was he really that he’d could replicate the same kind of heart-rending passion he had felt around Napoleon, that he still felt when he thought about him? Gaby’s caution was entirely warranted, it wouldn’t be fair to her to enter into something like this if Illya could never follow through. But Napoleon had made himself clear, and didn’t Illya owe it to himself to move on?

“I will love you, Gaby,” he promised, “How much better can it be?”

Of all the responses he could have provoked, he did not expect Gaby to _laugh_ at this. But then she said, “Do you think it only goes one way?”

“Oh,” Illya said, now regretting his words, “You do not think you could love me too?”

“I don’t know you well enough to say that, yet. I mean. I know you’re beautiful.” The compliment was unfamiliar and left Illya feeling a little stunned. Even though he’d seen himself in the mirror now, he still wasn’t used to looking like this. Distractingly beautiful, it seemed, as Gaby struggled to think of another compliment. Finally, she settled on, “You have a nice house.”

“There is nothing else remarkable about me?”

“Well, Napoleon told me all about your famous kindness and bravery and valour and sharp wit and all, and I’m sure you are all those things. I just haven’t seen it for myself yet.”

Illya’s heart gave a little lurch. “Napoleon said these things about me?”

“I couldn’t get him to _stop_ talking about you. He did a very good job of selling you, if that was your deal.”

“Selling me,” Illya said, his voice sounding as hollow as he felt, “Of course.”

“And I’m not saying he wasn’t convincing, or that I’m not convinced. I just I don’t know if I’m going to see you the same way he does. I mean, you never saved me from any wolves.”

Illya laughed a little, surprised at the way that memory warmed his heart. But thinking about that day made him think about what had immediately preceded it. His temper, his damage, his violence. He had hurt Napoleon in ways that damned any possibility that he could love him back. But Gaby said he still talked about him, implied he talked about their time together fondly. His hope for their friendship, at the very least, rekindled. Then his efforts refocused. 

“I would save you from wolves, if you ever needed it.”

Gaby looked at him for a long time, serious, unsmiling. “Okay.”

Illya’s heart soared, but when it landed, it was into a pit of nervousness, and not the elation he expected. His smile was shaky, “Okay?”

“I am tentatively saying yes, I will marry you.”

Illya stood up from his chair then, this felt momentous. He crossed the length of the table to where Gaby sat, and she stood up too. Gently taking her small face in his still-giant hands, he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers in a chaste kiss. Gaby was beautiful, her eyes sharp, her lips soft, her skin smooth. Still, Illya felt nothing. Anxiety prickled in his stomach. He opened his eyes and pulled back, but Gaby didn’t kiss him again. She only stepped back and excused herself back to her room.

The next morning, Gaby announced that she wanted to bring Illya back to the village, to meet her father, to get his blessing. If all went well, they decided they’d set the date for the wedding at the end of the month— why wait too long? Being in town would also give them the opportunity to find a caterer, a dress, and send out invitations. Illya couldn't think of anyone he particularly wanted at the ceremony. Other than Napoleon. This whole situation would feel a lot better if Napoleon were there. So he agreed to the trip eagerly, hoping that they would run into him, or perhaps he would learn where Napoleon lived. 

The newfound staff, the slow re-entry into the rhythms of normal life, also included carriage and driver so that he and Gaby could ride into town in record time and even announce their arrival.  They strolled through the town square on their way to the inn which Gaby’s family owned and managed. On their way several smiling faces greeted them, and Illya was surprised as Gaby gave most of them the cold shoulder right back. But then he started recognizing faces, and understood. Those same smiles had been scowls, expressions of hatred and disgust, when he had last seen them. They belonged to the people that had stormed his castle, to kill him. 

At once he felt uneasy. He reached for Gaby’s hand, hoping to hold it and steady himself, but when Gaby felt the backs of his fingers brush against hers, she snatched her hand back nervously. Illya drew his own hand back, embarrassed. And his nervousness only mounted as a man stopped them in front of the Tellers’ inn.

“Hello, sir, I do not believe I have introduced myself,” the man was pale and sneering, a thin moustache resting uncomfortably on his lip. He wore clothes that looked even more expensive than Illya’s, and looked terribly out of place. He extended his bony hand towards Illya, “My name is Guillaume Leduc, I am the proprietor of the general store, for any needs you may have.”

Illya’s blood ran cold. _This_ was Leduc? He frowned, “Thank you, but I have not exactly heard glowing reviews from those who have worked with you.”

Leduc turned bright red, and sputtered, “Who? Who has been telling you these lies?”

“It does not matter who it was, I believe them. They have my best interests in mind, and those do not include working with someone as disrespectful and arrogant as you.” 

“These are lies! When have I ever disrespected you, I’ve never even met you before!”

“When you led the charge to storm my castle and injured me,” Illya’s voice was a deadpan, and it took a lot of effort to keep his expression neutral as he watched the colour drain from Leduc’s face. There was nothing left for him to say, so he lowered his head and stalked away. 

Illya walked up and held the door open for Gaby. When they entered, she whirled towards him, beaming.

“That was amazing!” She punched him lightly on the shoulder, and Illya smiled. “You saw him that night?”

“I did, but I also know what he and his bastard son did to Napoleon. When I put the name and the face together…” Illya shook his head. Looking down he saw his hand had curled into a fist. A familiar burst of rage was pushing against his throat. But he had changed. He hadn’t let his temper win. He could feel this anger now and sit with it, instead of channelling it through his fists.

Gaby was looking down at his fist as well, her gaze flicked back up to his, concerned. He shook his head. Gaby didn’t push it, and instead led him to meet her father like they had planned.

They found him resting in his room, tucked into bed with a book in his hand. The inn was quiet today, few guests, and the bar didn’t open until later in the evening. It was a good thing too, Gaby explained, as some days his illness made him weaker than others. Today was a day he needed rest. Illya felt like his presence was disruptive, though Gaby assured him it wasn’t. He loomed awkwardly at Mr. Teller’s bedside.

“You want to marry my daughter then?” he asked. 

“Yes, sir.” Illya felt like he had forgotten how to talk.

“You love her?” Illya’s heart sank, even though he knew he was going to ask that. He sent a desperate glance over to Gaby. 

“Of course he does, father.”

“I’d like to hear him say it.”

“I do,” Illya said, though the lie made him feel sick. 

“Right,” Mr. Teller did not look convinced.

“Do I… do I have your blessing, sir?” Illya asked, trying his best not to cringe at himself.

“I can’t very well control what my Gaby does. It’s her life and I trust her to make the decisions that will make her happy.” He turned to his daughter then, “Marrying this man will make you happy?”

Gaby looked at him for a moment, not quite a challenge in her eyes but a question. Any answer Illya could think of was not the right one. Yes, he would value Gaby’s happiness, he felt like had missed the chance for his own. Yes, he would happily provide for Gaby, be her friend, and perhaps one day, something more. He would make her happy, with time, and that was all he could promise.

Gaby turned back to her dad and smiled, it didn’t quite reach her eyes, “I think we will make a fine life together.”

“That wasn’t my question, my dear.”

“Well your question was complicated,” Gaby snapped back.

“Was it really?”

“We didn’t come to know each other by ordinary means,” Gaby started, “You know this. I helped break the curse that was binding poor Illya to that castle. It has to mean something. That we are fated to be together. The happiness will come, as soon as we accept and commit to our fate.” It sounded like Gaby had been thinking about this a lot. Illya was impressed. Her reasoning made as much sense to him as anything.

Mr. Teller sighed, still unconvinced. Though Gaby rolled her eyes in frustration, Illya did not despair, he had time still to win Mr. Teller over.

Their conversation finished, Gaby showed Illya to his room. “So, this is for you.”

“Are you sleeping here?”

Gaby looked puzzled for a moment, “No, I’ll be in my room.”

“Oh,” Illya tried to sound disappointed, not relieved, but he wasn’t sure he achieved either.

“I have some work to do around the inn, getting some supplies for the bar and doing a bit of maintenance on the roof. Feel free to explore around town.”

“Do you need any help with your errands?”

“I should be fine but on the odd chance that I run late, do you mind opening up the bar? I know the answer is probably no because you’re a prince but I still have to ask… do you know how to work it?” 

“I could learn.”

Gaby sighed. “Alright, let’s teach you then.”

Illya followed Gaby down to the bar, where she took him through the steps of tapping a keg of beer, at which he was surprisingly proficient, his big hands and considerable strength giving him an advantage. Gaby then showed him where they kept the wine, the glasses, and all the things he would need to clean up.

“Got everything?”

“I think so.”

Gaby scrutinized him for a minute. “Hmm. Not quite.”

“Something’s missing?”

“I don’t know how well bartending is going to go in that little get-up of yours.” At once, Illya’s hands smoothed self-consciously down his front. He thought he looked good today in a sleek black suit with golden cufflinks that bore his family’s insignia, the bear, with a pressed and gleaming white shirt. Gaby shook her head at him and ran upstairs. She came back down with a soft flannel shirt and an apron. 

“Trust me, this job can get messy sometimes.”

Illya shrugged and ducked into the tavern’s kitchen to change. As he tugged the new shirt on, he caught Gaby’s eye, and she looked away quickly, a blush spreading across her cheeks. Illya smiled, and he felt his own cheeks heating up. It was different, delightful to be appreciated like this. He finished dressing and stood in front of her.

“How do I look?”

She looked at him, and he could see in her intelligent eyes that she was sizing him up, considering him carefully. A slow, honest smile spread across her face. “Beautiful,” she said. Illya smiled back, giddy with the possibility of this. His patience was paying off, and his hope was founded, something beautiful could grow between them. 

Then the door clattered open, and they both turned towards the noise. The smile fell off Illya’s face instantly, and his stomach dropped. He could feel Gaby’s gaze turn to him, but his attention had fallen singularly, and was stuck, on Napoleon in the threshold.

He looked just as stunned to see Illya. There was a brief flicker in Napoleon’s gaze, like he didn’t quite recognize Illya. And Illya couldn’t blame him. He wasn’t even in his normal clothes anymore. Then Napoleon’s expression changed, he looked quickly behind him and then back at Illya, as if considering leaving. That shot panic through Illya’s heart.

“Napoleon!” He called out, smiling, and effectively shattering the awful awkward silence. Napoleon looked at him, but didn’t smile back. Illya tried not to waver. Finally, after a moment that felt too long, he approached the bar.

“Hi,” he said, before running a self-conscious hand through his hair and smoothing it down. It was wild and curly today, just as Illya had gotten to know it, and just how Illya liked it best. He stared at the soft raven peaks, jetting out in all directions. His fingers twitched with that familiar fantasy of running his hands through it. 

He realized they were staring at each other in silence again. So he tried to string together a few intelligible words, and ignore the erratic beat of his heart. “How are you?”

“Ah, I’m okay.” He didn’t sound too sure about it, and he smiled unsteadily. Then Illya noticed the dashes of purple underneath his eyes, the slight pallor to his skin. There was a nervous energy around him, like he was on edge, waiting for some unseen threat. Illya didn’t know what had happened since he left the castle, who might have hurt him since then. Illya’s fingers itched to hurt that person back.

“You’re not still sick, are you?” Gaby said, and Illya turned with a start, remembering she was there. She was also looking at Napoleon, but her gaze travelled to Illya as well. Whatever barrier they had just crossed seemed like it was up again, Gaby’s look at him was full of irritation. He wasn’t sure what he did. But there was another pressing concern in his mind, Napoleon had been sick? What had happened? Was he better? Who was taking care of him? He turned back to Napoleon, who shook his head. 

“No, just haven’t been getting much sleep.”

Gaby smiled then, “So is it new lovers every night or is there one particular one you have that’s been keeping you up?”

Illya’s eyes widened at Gaby’s words, a painful jolt went through his heart, and a sick jealous bile bubbled up in his throat. Napoleon wouldn’t meet his eye. But he shook his head. 

“No lovers, just catching up on a lot of work.”

Gaby smiled then, “You’ve become so industrious these days, I’m impressed.”

Napoleon smiled back at her, but then his gaze flickered back to Illya and the smile fell off his face again. But then, to Illya’s surprise, he said, “I actually have Peril here to thank for that.” 

“Oh really?” Gaby prompted. 

“I’d been in an awful block before… well, before. And now I can’t _stop_ painting.” He waved his hands for emphasis, and Illya could see streaks of pigment at his wrist, where he’d missed them washing up. His mind flashed back to another time, close to Napoleon’s paint-stained skin. It made his heart beat wildly, and the words dried up in his mouth. The three of them were plunged into another stagnant silence. 

“Well, these errands won’t attend to themselves,” Gaby said, finally breaking it, “I’ll leave you two to catch up.”

Napoleon opened his mouth as if to argue, but Gaby was off like a shot. Ducking out from behind the bar, she ambled towards the door, shutting it on her way out. With that definitive click, Napoleon and Illya faced each other, alone together for the first time.

“What brings you here?” Illya asked, willing his voice not to shake. “Can I get you a drink?”

“No, no. I came by to see Gaby, actually. Someone told me she was in town.”

“With me.”

“Yes, as it turns out.” 

Another long, awkward silence. Illya tried hard to unpack Napoleon’s tone. His words were clipped, impatient, his gaze roamed around the room. He seemed distracted. Illya couldn’t stop staring at him, stretching the silence out even longer, until it became awkward, stifling. 

“So,” Napoleon said, his gaze was finally locked with Illya’s, and it sent a thrum of energy through Illya’s chest. “I take it things are going well with you.”

“Could be better.”

“Oh really?” Napoleon looked genuinely puzzled. He counted off a list on his fingers, “You got the girl, you’re back to normal. What more could you want?” 

“My friend back.” The truth fell from Illya’s lips and hung there between them, obtrusive and awkward. A red flush spread across Napoleon’s cheeks. He looked away and Illya sighed, sick of the sore feeling in his chest. “I don’t like how we left things.”

Napoleon shook his head, “I don’t either, I’m sorry.” He still wouldn’t look at Illya.

“I am sorry as well.” 

Surprised, Napoleon finally met Illya’s gaze. “What are you apologizing for?”

“For being… violent, for making you feel captive there with me. For anything I may have done to hurt you. I am not a monster anymore, I promise.”

Napoleon’s expression grew steely, and when he met Illya’s gaze again, he looked _angry_ , which confused Illya. “You were never a monster,” Napoleon said, his voice deadly serious. “Of everything that curse took from you, you kept your humanity, always.”

“Then why did you run away so suddenly? I thought you… I thought that we,” Illya cut himself off, considering his words carefully. He didn’t want to scare Napoleon with his assumption, not like last time. He was scared to reveal too much, and ashamed of how strongly he still felt. He had to remind himself, he was marrying Gaby. He kept his words deliberately vague. “I thought we were close."

Napoleon blinked a few times, and when he spoke his voice was hoarse, “We were. I mean, we can still be.” 

“This is the first time I am seeing you since you left.” 

“It is?” 

“When else would I have seen you?” 

Then Napoleon looked away. “Just… around town I guess.”

“I would have said hello.”

“I suppose you would have.”

“You can come back anytime, you know. If you wanted to collect any of your paintings or supplies.”

“You want me to take your portrait back?”

“No!” Illya blurted, then he winced at himself. “I mean, I would like to keep it if you would let me.” 

“Keep it,” Napoleon said, waving a hand dismissively, but then he got a strange look in your eyes, his voice grew quiet. “You never have to ask.”

“Never? What do you mean?”

Napoleon shrugged, Illya found himself infuriated at the gesture, especially as he said right after, “I don’t think there’s anything I wouldn’t do for you.”

The sincerity in his words ignited a sick, foolish hope in Illya. The word _anything_ held so many possibilities. But did it mean Napoleon could love him? Or was that beyond the scope of _anything_ , was it truly impossible? In the stunned silence between them, he remembered, even if it were possible, he’d made a promise to someone else. How quickly he could ruin his tentative relationship with Gaby, and his only now-healing friendship with Napoleon with the one question that hollowed out his heart. So he asked another one entirely, “Would you be my best man?”

Napoleon grew suddenly, noticeably pale. His mouth was pressed into a thin line, but all at once, his eyes were shuttered of all expression. His voice was level when he said, “You’re getting married?” 

Illya felt uncomfortable then, like he didn’t want to say it out loud and confirm that it was true. Still he made himself say, “Yes. At the end of the month.”

“That’s marvellous! Congratulations!” Napoleon’s smile was friendly, but his lip corners trembled. 

“You’ll come?” Illya didn’t know what to think of Napoleon’s words, they were joyous but uncertain. He felt desperate for an answer. This is what they had worked for, so why wouldn’t Napoleon come? His doubt came in the form of a pained look stuttering across Napoleon’s features, replaced quickly with that smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Of course I’ll be there.” The smile went lopsided. “I’m the best man, after all.”

“Don’t make the speech too embarrassing.” The joke seemed to fall flat, and Napoleon’s expression had fallen too. They plunged into awkward silence once again. So Illya asked, “Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

“I probably shouldn’t.” 

“Gaby taught me how to use the keg.” 

Illya gestured to the apparatus behind the bar. A flicker of amusement crossed Napoleon’s expression, his gaze travelled up and down Illya’s chest, before stopping at his neck. A flush of heat grew there, probably turning the pale skin pink. 

“Is that why you’re in that get up?” 

“I was told my usual clothes would alienate the customers.”

“I think it would class this place up a little bit.”

Illya beamed, “I thought so too! You should make my case for me when Gaby gets back.”

Napoleon glanced at the door and back again at Illya. “Speaking of, I should probably go. I have a few errands to run myself.”

“So no drink?” 

“Not today.”

“Can I see you again soon?” Illya hoped that didn’t sound half as desperate as he felt. Napoleon was already stepping away from the bar, and each inch of distance he put between the two of them set alight a panicky unease in Illya’s stomach.

“I don’t know,” Napoleon said, and the disappointment felt like a blow to the gut. It must have shown because Napoleon backtracked, coming a few steps closer. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I’ve just… I’ve got a lot of work."

Illya nodded, attempted a smile. “I understand. I’ll be here. Or, you know where to find me.”

Napoleon only nodded, short and terse. He turned and walked out of the inn without looking back. When he was gone, Illya leaned heavily against the bar counter, staring hard at the swirls of the wood panel, tracing his finger along the pattern. Had he resolved things with Napoleon? Nominally, he supposed they had. But then why did he still feel terrible? He thought of seeing Napoleon again, with the skittish way he’d acted, it would probably just be at the wedding. The thought of the wedding made him dizzy with anxiety. 

He realized then, that this couldn’t be happiness. If this is what he had worked towards, how could he still feel so alone?


	8. i want to find you

It was the day of his wedding, and Illya sat in Napoleon’s studio, frozen in front of his portrait as a beast. He could hear the staff bustling through the halls. The high-pitched tittering of the few ladies-in-waiting Gaby had equipped to help her get ready, the booming voice of the chef reverberating all the way from the kitchen, the scattered footsteps of the decorators and their tools beating against the walls. 

Nothing felt right, no matter how much he tried to tell himself otherwise. He had been nauseated since he woke up. His heart fluttered with an anxiety that refused to be quelled. His suit was white and itchy. And if he stopped making excuses he would know that nothing _had_ felt right since he saw Napoleon. Gaunt, shaking, nervous, it wasn’t how he knew Napoleon to be. Something had changed since he’d left the castle, and Illya was sure he’d caused it. The guilt was eating away at him. 

Gaby was unhappy with him. In the weeks leading up to now, he had all but ignored her, unable to pretend anymore that this is what he wanted. But now, as he stared up at the beast he swore he no longer would be, he contemplated how he would ever tell the truth without being cruel, whether that was even possible. 

Of course, he had to confront the truth himself first. It was becoming impossible to ignore that he loved Napoleon. He thought about him constantly, he worried about him, dreamed about him. Even if Napoleon didn’t love him back, he certainly felt _something_. Though awkward and brief, their conversation had raised Illya’s heckles, set his suspicions alight that Napoleon was unhappy and that he was somehow the cause. He had too many questions, it wouldn’t be right to marry Gaby, without knowing first. 

But he had procrastinated, he had said nothing while she planned this event for weeks now. She had kept the ceremony small, inviting her family, a few friends, an officiant. Illya had invited no one but Napoleon, and yet, as he gazed into his own eyes lovingly rendered in ice blue, he had a horrible certainty that Napoleon would not be coming.

A few nights ago, at a distracted dinner, Gaby had probed this uncomfortable realization out of him. And he had still done nothing. 

"I was thinking we might take a trip after the wedding," she had said. 

Illya had jolted up from his food. _After the wedding,_ was a time that filled him with nothing but dread. Swallowing past the feeling, he had made himself ask, "Where would you like to go?"

"Oh, here and there." And she had listed off a few places where she knew avid collectors of antiques could conduct appraisals. "It might not be a bad idea to expand your collections. What you haven't destroyed yet, of course." Her tone had been teasing, she had paired it with a smile, but the comment had still stung. 

"We will go, then," he had said, fighting the to frown.

"There is immense historical value in this castle, Illya. I know of many people who would jump at the chance to document it."

"You have free reign to do that," Illya had said, and he had meant it. He felt such a disconnect to this place, it had been his home, a place of his fondest memories and greatest pains. "Even now, you need not wait until the wedding." 

Gaby had seemed elated at the promise. She had even given him a kiss on the cheek before she retired to bed that evening. And she had hovered, waited to see if Illya would turn it into anything more. But he had been unable, statue-still. 

The sound of the door opening jolted him from the memory, an attendant peeked his head through the door. 

"Your highness, the guests have arrived."

Thinking only of Napoleon, Illya was propelled to his feet. There was a wild hope in his chest, that perhaps he was wrong, and he had come after all. He made it to the top of the stairs, and looked down, Gaby hugged her father, greeted each of her three friends in turn. No Napoleon. His hand flying out to grip onto the banister, he leaned against it heavily, his heart weighed down by his disappointment. 

Then, Gaby turned. He noticed for the first time that she was a vision in white, her dress was simple and lacy and trailed the ground. It was sophisticated, just like her hair which was in an intricate tangle of plaits wrapped around her head. Gaby met his gaze, and gave him a confused look in turn. Extricating herself from her guests, she climbed the stairs up to him. He stood in front of her, already feeling guilty before he’d said anything. He had the sense that Gaby knew.

“Where have you been all day?” she asked. 

“Gaby, I must talk to you. In private.”

She rolled her eyes, and the look she gave him, the frustrated set of her mouth, the furrow in her brow, told him all he needed to know. But then she surprised him, saying, “You know that portrait of you? The one Napoleon did?”

Illya hated the way his breath caught just at the mention of Napoleon’s name. “Yes?”

“I think we should frame it and hang it here. In the hall for everyone to see. For Napoleon to see, that you appreciate his work.” 

“I don’t think he is coming.” Illya’s voice was hoarse, his misery plain. Gaby looked at him for a long moment, and when she spoke next, her question was a test. 

“Does he have to?"

Immediately, Illya deflated. All the fight left him, all the willingness to keep up the pretense. “I haven’t stopped thinking about him since he walked into the inn.” 

Gaby nodded then, a terse, stiff movement of her neck. He watched her blink rapidly, and turn away. Illya followed her gaze to where her father and her friends still milled about near the door. “You’re right, maybe this conversation is best had in private.”

“I’m so sorry, Gaby—” he started, but she silenced him with a severe look and gestured for him to follow her. His heart leapt into his throat when he realized she was leading him to Napoleon’s studio. Even the fact that he could not extricate Napoleon’s presence from this room, from every part of his home, should have spelled disaster from the beginning. 

Gaby stopped in front of his portrait and rounded on him, folding her hands across her chest.

“You’re in love with Napoleon.” 

It startled him to have someone say it out loud. It amazed him that his impossible, heavy secret could just be so cavalierly spoken into truth. He tried to say it, but his tongue felt unfamiliar in his mouth. There was a beat of silence until he could make himself admit it. 

“Yes. I am.”

Gaby took a deep breath. There was a twitch of expression across her features, resignation, sadness, and at last, anger. She wouldn’t look at him. 

“So then, what are we doing here? What have we been doing all this time?” There was no venom in her voice. The question was sincere, still it was difficult to answer.

Illya squeezed his eyes shut, and bowed his head. “I never wanted you to get hurt. I thought I was doing the right thing. That— because he didn’t love me back, I could move on.”

“I’m not a consolation prize, Illya.I am my own person. And all this time I just let myself be fooled by you, by this fairytale you promised.”

“I cannot forgive myself for it—”

“I don't know if I can either.”

A chilly silence spread between them. They listened to the din of the chatter from guests, the movement of staff, again muffled through the door. Guilt pressed up against Illya's throat until he broke the silence. “I didn’t just pick you for consolation, Gaby. I admire you greatly. I noticed right away, from the moment I saw you, how beautiful you are. I wanted to know more about you, and now that I do, I wish we could have started again and been friends. You are not only beautiful, but you are intelligent, and compassionate, and capable, and driven. Anyone would be lucky to love you, and it is my great misfortune that I cannot.”  Gaby tilted her head at him, looking at him again, finally, and it gave him some encouragement to continue. “And I thought for the longest time, that I had to love you, because your kiss broke my curse. And it was killing me that I couldn’t.”

“How did you know it was me?” 

“Who else could it have been?” 

“I wasn’t in the room when you… transformed. I thought it was just because the effects of my kiss were delayed or something, but maybe Napoleon kissed you.”

“Napoleon wasn’t there.”

Gaby’s eyes widened and her hand shot up to cover her mouth. Her reaction drove Illya’s anxiety up, he could feel his hands beginning to shake. Then Gaby asked, “What do you remember from that night?”

Illya concentrated on the memory, but so much of that night had been a haze. The days since Napoleon had left were a confused string of episodes of rage, deep sobbing sorrow, and consolation in drink and dreaming. When the villagers had stormed his castle, it had been a break in the miserable monotony, but it had been a trauma of its own. He couldn't blame himself for wanting to forget that time. But now, slowly, as if seeing through murky water, flashes of the night came back to him. 

“I remember being struck in my shoulder, running up to Napoleon’s room, I couldn’t find bandages, I was so tired, I lay down. The next thing I remember is being changed back, and you were there.”

“You don’t remember Napoleon there at all?”

Shaking in earnest now, Illya said, “He left so suddenly, the week prior. I thought he knew I loved him, that he was disgusted. He never tried to talk to me after.”

Gaby shook her head. “He was really sick when he got back, bedridden. All he would do is talk about you.” Her hand pressed up against her forehead and she began to pace. “I should have realized. I mean. I think I did, but I didn't want to admit it.” 

“What do you mean?"

“When I saw you all transformed… I thought you were handsome, and it had been such a strange night. And then you kissed me. That’s when I should have known. I should have known every time he talked about you. I suspected it, but I didn’t say anything.”

“Suspected what?” Illya knew the answer, but he still couldn’t convince himself of it. 

Finally, Gaby said, “I don’t know what he’s said to you, but Napoleon loves you too.”

Illya shook his head, but the room felt like it was spinning. He regretting hanging up all those portraits now, because as he turned his gaze to get his bearings, images of his own family flooded his vision, going generations back, scrutinizing him with their piercing eyes. As if to telegraph their disappointment through time. As if to remind him what a fool he’d been. The thought that Napoleon could have been the one who kissed him sent his heart ricocheting through his chest. But as soon as he entertained the thought, he knew it had to be true. Hope, love, confusion, anger, sorrow. He felt each emotion like a lightning-strike. 

Rendered unstable, he stumbled back towards the chair, but his hand caught on his portrait, knocking it off its easel. He and Gaby watched, silent as it clattered against the floor, taking a drop cloth with it. When Illya glanced back up at the easel, it revealed another painting underneath. And if any trace of his rational mind were left in his head, the sight of his painting took the last of them with it.

It was Napoleon. Rendered in pain. Shaky Monet-strokes of pigment formed a self portrait of a man who was a mirror of Illya’s own tempest of emotions. Though the paint was smudged in some places, it still had the uncanny ability to telegraph the emotion Napoleon had worked into it. There was torment here, confusion, guilt, and love. The lines of his face were soft and relaxed as they always used to be when he looked at Illya. The clever glint in his blue eyes when he argued, the shadow of his smile lines.

Doubt was replaced with urgency. He needed to talk to Napoleon as soon as he could. He turned to Gaby again. There were tears in her eyes as she looked at the painting. Momentarily, Illya felt a break in his mania, overcome with concern for her.

“Gaby?”

“I don’t understand why he wouldn’t just tell me he loved you.”

At once, Illya knew. And it sent a rush of love for Napoleon through his veins. “He cares too much. About you. About me. He made a promise to me, that he would help me be with you. He wanted us to be happy. He did not think about himself.” 

Gaby nodded, finally letting the tears spill down her cheeks. When she turned to Illya there was determination in her gaze. “Go find him.” 

Illya’s heart leapt at the thought. Still he hesitated. “People were expecting a wedding.”

“I’ll deal with them, don’t worry. We’ll have a feast and plenty of champagne. We’ll dance and we’ll celebrate you. We’ll still celebrate love.”

The decision was made for him then. "Gaby, even though we are not getting married, the castle is yours."

"Illya, no you don't have to worry about me." 

"It is not a worry. It is a thank you. You have been a good friend to me. This castle has not."

She rushed up to him then and pulled him into a hug. "Stop stalling," she said, but when she pulled back she smiled with tears in the corners of her eyes. 

"You will take it," Illya said again, feeling a roll of nausea in his stomach at his next words, "Even if it does not work out." 

Gaby shook her head. “It will.” And with that, she gave him directions to the cottage where Napoleon lived. In a blur, ridiculous in his wedding suit, he mounted his horse and was off. The whole journey his anxiety burned a hole through him, but he held out hope. 

Heartbeat pounding in his ears, he slowly approached the cottage. It was a humble little abode, tucked away from the road with tall willow trees. Its walls were crawling with ivy, its windows were large but all shuttered. It was ringed around by a short iron fence, whose gate was open, swinging slightly in the breeze. There was a carriage parked outside. There was no driver, just a sleek black horse waiting at the reins, tied up to one of the fenceposts. Illya tied his own horse to a nearby post and dismounted, walking closer.

Then Napoleon emerged, his view obfuscated by a massive crate in his hands, Illya could see sheets of canvas poking out of the top of it. He felt anxious all over again. He watched from the side of the carriage as Napoleon approached, and when he was only a foot or two away, he stumbled. Illya rushed up to grab the crate in his hands to steady him. Napoleon let go of it, startled, and Illya hauled it to the side and set it down. But he misjudged its weight, and the box tipped over. A dozen more of Napoleon’s self-portraits spilled out, and Illya was stuck, staring at them. They seemed to show a progression, a man in heartbreak, a man in mourning. Pale eyes, ringed with deeper and deeper purples, frown lines where smiles should have been, skin becoming sallow, eyes lovelorn and lost. 

When Illya rose up again to meet Napoleon’s gaze, a living image of the portraits stared back at him, balancing on the fine tremor in his legs. Emotion threatened to overwhelm him when he saw Napoleon wide eyed, red-cheeked, and stammering. 

“What are you doing here?” 

So many sentiments fought for Illya’s voice, he panicked and said the most mundane one. “You didn’t come to my wedding.”

Illya watched as Napoleon’s expression crumbled. Just like it had at every mention of his wedding when they had talked earlier. Just as it had whenever he’d brought up Gaby in the castle. He couldn’t believe he’d missed it, all this time. His heart ached at the way Napoleon averted his gaze, blinked away his tears and looked back at him, a lopsided smile on his face. “I guess that makes me a pretty awful best man.”

“I’m not getting married without you."

The smile vanished. A breeze rushed though the willows. “I’m sorry. I should have said something sooner, sent a letter… I’ve got a huge commission from a client in Paris. I’m leaving.”

A surge of panic, Illya hadn’t realized his time was limited. “When are you coming back?”

“Never. Probably. There’s nothing for me here.”

“What about me?”

Napoleon shook his head, gaze still averted. Illya’s eyes tracked the way his curls moved with the action. “With you and Gaby married, you’ll be busy. That’s my two friends gone. I don’t have anyone else here.” 

“I told you, I’m not getting married.”

Napoleon looked at him finally, an irritated twist to his mouth. “You can’t hold me hostage by delaying your marriage.” 

“I’ve held you hostage before.”

This startled a laugh out of Napoleon, and when Illya saw that smile again, after so long, he wondered how he’d ever doubted this love. With a smirk, Napoleon said, “It’s not going to work this time. But really, I wish you all the best, even if I can’t be there.” Then the smirk was gone, replaced with sincerity. “You know, all I want is for you to be happy.” Illya could feel his heart’s emphatic pound.

“I am not being clear,” Illya said, sighing and stepping closer. He heard Napoleon’s sharp intake of breath, and stepped closer still until they were inches apart. His hands came up on either side of Napoleon, one rested on his shoulder, smoothed his thumb against the soft linen of his shirt, the other cupped the side of his face, just like he had once, a lifetime ago.

Napoleon stared up at him, wide eyed, his mouth was slightly open. Illya could feel his heart racing just looking at the swell of Napoleon’s lower lip, the pink hint of his tongue. When he looked back at Napoleon’s eyes, there was a knowing glint there, and still, doubt. It was time to erase that doubt, once and for all. 

“You are my true love.” Illya smiled, he couldn’t help himself, saying it was such a relief. “I love you. And I cannot be with anyone else.”

Napoleon blinked, and a tear rolled down his cheek, along Illya’s thumb where it rested. Illya brushed it away. When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet, Illya had to lean in closer to hear him. “I didn’t know. Didn’t think…”

“That you could be loved? I was the beast. That was my problem.” Illya said this with a smirk on his face, but Napoleon’s brow immediately furrowed. 

“You’re not a beast, you never were.”

“You saw the humanity in me, always. Even when I didn’t.”

Napoleon’s eyes welled up again, his next inhale shuddered. Illya pulled him close. The hand that rested on his shoulder trailed the back of his next, and pressed him tight against Illya’s body. Illya rested his chin on Napoleon’s shoulder instead, and tucked Napoleon’s face against his neck, soothed the next few shuddering breaths, rubbing smooth circles on his back. At this point, Illya knew Napoleon loved him too. But his anxiety prickled, not hearing it back. He calmed his own breaths, willing himself to be patient, to be careful. The moment felt so fragile, a precious balance of the smell of paint and wild grass, the feeling of hot breath against his neck and the cool breeze against his own damp eyes. 

Then a muffled sound against his shoulder, and Illya pulled back to see Napoleon’s face again. His cheeks were flushed, his lips bitten red, his eyelashes wet and sticking together. He was a vision. “I didn’t know you felt this way,” he said.

Illya nodded, smiling despite himself, “You were being a good friend. You put me and Gaby before yourself.”

“Gaby,” his eyes flashed with panic. 

Illya shook his head. “She told me you were there that night. That you kissed me too.” 

Napoleon winced. “I should have said something… but you looked so happy when you saw her, you looked so perfect together.”

“I was already too far gone, in love with you."

“You never said anything.”

“I was trying to tell you, when we danced. You were trying to tell me, with your portrait.”

“We could have had this so much sooner.”

“We have wasted a lot of time.”

“Well, no more of that,” Napoleon said, his hand bunching up the front of Illya’s shirt. He tugged Illya forward, and their lips met, once again, but it felt like the first time. It felt like every piece of the puzzle falling into place. Napoleon’s lips were plush and soft, and Illya kissed him back with equal fervour, feeling a thrum of pleasure every time their eager, clumsy efforts resulted in a slight clash of teeth, the feeling of Napoleon’s tongue, exploratory and skilled. Parting finally to breathe, Napoleon’s lips kissed along Illya’s jaw, scraping his teeth against Illya’s pulse point, making Illya’s knees weak, and finally, his mouth latched onto the long column of Illya’s throat, roughly pushing aside his shirt to get at the sensitive juncture where it met his shoulder, his mouth working with an even, dedicated pressure. Illya clutched on to Napoleon’s shoulders for dear life, made a sound far too obscene for being out in public like this, even if Napoleon’s home was secluded. So he pulled away. 

“Sorry about that,” he said, voice hoarse, cheeks burning. 

Napoleon leaned back, tipping his head up to look at him. He laughed, open, and loving, with a smile that was blinding in its unrestrained joy. Illya smiled back despite the fact that his skin was likely glowing red now. Napoleon stepped back then, and Illya tugged him into his arms again, unwilling to let go, perhaps ever again. Napoleon tilted his head, leaning into the heat of Illya’s body. 

“Come inside. You can make all the noise you want.” 

That thrill of that promise was dampened by one question only. “What about Paris?”

“Paris can wait. I’ve certainly waited long enough.” 

His heart full, Illya followed Napoleon into his home. Through cramped hallways, up creaking stairs, past more paintings than there was wall-space to hang them, into a warm bedroom, into a warmer embrace, Illya fell. And he lived, for the first time, in the ecstatic rhythm of their bodies’ embrace, in the delicate silence broken by the sound of kissing and gasped breath, in the rare and fragile pleasure of requited love. 

“I love you,” Napoleon told him, finally, as their bodies crested together, and Illya laughed, elated, and kissed him, as if to seal the sentiment, and keep it with him forever.

And in the aftermath, skin sticking with sweat, sheets tangled and wrapped around fore-limbs, Napoleon pressed a kiss to his shoulder, an act somehow more intimate than everything that preceded it, and smiled, a secret lover’s smile. When he sat up, Illya felt the distance between them like a physical ache. 

“I’m sorry my place isn’t as big and fancy as what you’re used to,” he joked, coming back, fetching a wash-basin himself, rather than summoning one, and wetting a cloth to slowly wipe down Illya’s torso. He shivered at the touch, and put a hand over Napoleon’s.

“I would give up that castle for this any day.” ****

And it was true, painted as plain as brushstrokes on canvas, as potent as the heat in their embrace. This love was more precious than anything he had ever known. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title/chapter titles from Howl by Florence and the Machine.


End file.
